


Strikeout

by snarkydarkling



Category: Original Work
Genre: BDSM, Consensual Non-Consent, D/s, Dom/sub, F/M, Fear Play, Knife Play, Master/Slave, Rape Fantasy, Rape Roleplay, S&M, WHY AM I WRITING ANOTHER SMUTTY FIC, also i hate myself for writing this, basically how i wished fsog had gone down, if it weren't so terribly written and christian wasn't such a creepy stalker, just your average cliched billionaire romp from yours truely, see you all in hell kthxbye
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 05:15:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7300966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkydarkling/pseuds/snarkydarkling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When CEO Matthias Strike chews her out during a job interview,  22-year-old Juno Ward discovers an unconventional way to overcome her anxiety disorder and the ruthless Strike finds a willing outlet for his temper.</p>
<p>(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ ...and then kinky sex ensues!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. strike one

The doors burst open and another student stormed out, this time nearly in tears as she hastily wiped at her eyes and rushed towards the elevators at the end of the hall.

I watched the door swing shut behind her. In the little sliver of light I was afforded, I made out a single polished Oxford, tapping impatiently. I swallowed and looked away. Soon, the stern looking blonde from HR would pop her head out and call my name for the next interview.

I wasn’t ready.

No one ever was when it came to facing Strike.

Sitting in the elegantly furnished waiting room of _Strike Energy Corporation_ with its forward-tilted floor to ceiling windows and white marble flooring was like being a pauper waiting to see King Henry VIII.

Seated all around me were more qualified job-seekers than I. Most of them were young men in suits, frantically trying to memorize their notes about company history. I sat with my sweating palms in my lap, crossing and uncrossing my ankles in dread. If I squinted at my blouse long enough, I could just make out last week’s faded coffee stain. I knew the only reason I’d even scored the interview was because of Emily, but I thought it wise not to mention that to anyone.

The door to the interview room opened and all I wanted to do was throw open the nearest window and jump out. The blonde narrowed her eyes at room until she found me and said, “Juno Ward? In here, please.”

I shot to my feet and followed after her, my body a tangle of nervous energy. I’d heard horror stories about Strike; about how he’d once fired an entire department for being incompetent; how he ran ethically questionable experiments in his private laboratory; how he was devastatingly caustic to anyone he even remotely disliked. God, I barely even knew the man and already I didn’t want to be anywhere near his bad side.

The double doors opened revealing a spacious conference room containing three people. The light from the expansive windows behind them nearly blinded me and I stood there squinting dumbly at them before my eyes adjusted to the scene. Two men were seated side by side on a long black table, both of them somewhere in their early forties. They stood up to introduce themselves but in my nervousness I could barely even remember their names.

I gingerly took a seat in front of them before I registered the periodic impatient tapping of feet. To my side, lounging at the head of the long table was a third figure I’d hardly noticed in my panic. His gaze was like an electric shock and I quickly looked away at the desk, my brain already trying to put together the pieces of what I’d seen.

Dark hair, cold grey eyes, and a crisp white shirt with the top buttons undone. Only one person at SE Corp could get away with eschewing their strict dress code.

_Matthias Strike._

Without even looking at him, I could feel his assessing gaze, quietly docking points in whatever areas he found me lacking. While the other two men immediately started launching into standard interview questions, Strike leaned back in his seat, his fingers rest on his chin, his black Oxfords tap, tap, tapping on the floor and driving me insane.

I had always been an anxious person. Dr. Baker said that anxiety was just shyness under pressure. But what I felt in my body now was absolutely nothing short of someone about to experience cardiac arrest. My heart hammered so loudly in my chest, I swore everyone in the room heard it. The blood rushed straight to my face, turning my cheeks into bright tomatoes. My chest felt tight, my hands clammy with cold sweat, my voice shaking with every other word. I had to gasp for breath after each sentence while keeping myself firmly planted in my seat when all I wanted to do was run out with my face in my hands.

I hated this feeling. I was choking on fear and every perceptive eye in the room could sense it.

Neither of the two men interviewing me were particularly impressed with the answers I gave. And why should they be? I had no relevant work experience, my college GPA was shit, and I had no snazzy awards or portfolio to show off. I should never have let Emily talk me into this.

“Er, alright, then Miss Ward,” said one the interviewers. “I think that’s all we have for now. Mr. Strike, any questions?”

The whole thing couldn’t have lasted more than five minutes but I knew the email had said to anticipate at least a thirty minute technical test and they hadn’t even bothered asking me that. I must have really bombed it. Under my seat, I crossed my fingers, hoping Strike would be in a good mood and let me go and forget this whole embarrassing interview. Perhaps on my way back to the sitting room I could feign stomach cramps so no one would know the interview had been cut short due to my fantastic incompetence.

“I have several,” said Strike, his tone practically glacial. “Clear the room.”

The two interviewers looked stunned but quietly acquiesced and left, leaving me alone with the man I’d dreaded facing the most. I tried to do the breathing exercises I’d learned in therapy but only managed a pathetic sort of sniff before losing all the air in my lungs.

For a moment, we just stared at each other---me in fear, and him in contemplation, as if he was trying to work out some equation in his head. I switched tactics from breathing exercises to trying to note my surroundings. Strike was ridiculously good-looking, which didn’t help my nerves. I knew from the times I’d stalked his Wikipedia page that he was thirty-two, though he appeared slightly younger. I noticed that his hair was slightly tousled, as if he’d ran his hand through it in frustration one too many times. His presence had a way of completely filling the room and his appraising gaze was impossible to ignore. I’d never seen eyes like his before. They were sharp and smoky, reminding me of cut glass.

“How did you get this interview?” he said at last, relieving me from the full force of his scrutiny when he finally glanced down at the resume in his hand.

I wracked my brain for excuses, briefly wondering if he prefered the truth or not. The truth was that my best friend and roommate, Emily de Vries, worked in the finance department and was engaged to Wesley Beaufort, who also worked in finance but had a friend whose girlfriend happened to work in HR. So naturally, my resume had trickled up the corporate ladder until it was now in hands of its unamused CEO.

“I just applied for the position.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized how impertinent it sounded.

“You just...applied.” The corner of Strike’s lips quirked up as if he was holding back a mirthless laugh.

I decided not to respond to the accusation in his tone and simply sat staring at my lap. Dr. Baker was bound to dissect this terrible episode for three entire sessions. A heavy silence fell between us and I could tell Strike was still waiting for some kind of explanation but I didn’t know what he wanted me to say.

“Who’s your friend in HR?”

“What?” I looked up at him and wished I hadn’t. I was right: his eyes were like cut glass. They were tearing me apart with just a look.

“You don’t think I’m stupid enough to believe that _this_ ,” he said, waving my resume, “could have possibly gotten through our software filters?”

The lump in my throat was starting to expand and the stinging in the corner of my eyes signalled I was about to burst into tears from the fear. I decided I would have to make a quick exit before anyone caught me hyperventilating into a plastic bag.

“You’re right, Mr. Strike,” I said in a shaky voice. “This has been a mistake. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

I got up to leave but he pushed a chair out in front of my path to stop me. “I didn’t say you could leave. I wasn’t finished.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, wordlessly taking a seat. Everything about this man screamed authority and I’d always been terribly frightened of disappointing authority.

“What exactly did you imagine would happen when you applied for this position? Did you think that despite your abysmal lack of experience, references, and awards that we’d just let you have this post on a silver platter,  no questions asked?”

“Of course not,” I rushed to explain. “I...I just wanted to take my chances---”

“Oh, Juno,” he sighed, as if he were speaking to small child. The intimate way he spoke my name was almost sinful. “Reading through this depressingly short resume tells me your chances are practically in the negatives.”

I bristled suddenly. I knew my chances were low but now he was just being rude. Rude just for the hell of it. He could have ended his interview ages ago and called in the next person. Why was he choosing to torture me instead? I wanted to say something cutting and witty but my mind failed me as usual.

“I’m not fond of nepotism,” he continued. “But who knows? Perhaps you can impress me. It says here you recently graduated with a degree in engineering. Tell me, what’s the first law of thermodynamics?”

I swallowed, trying to clear my brain. This was my worst nightmare being played out in front of me. Some imposing authority figure puts me to the test and I fail spectacularly.

“Um, something about entropy? Entropy increases, I think.”  

The smile he gave me was predatory. If this man were a killer, he wouldn’t be the kind to shoot you in the face and get it over with. He’d take his time, savouring every moment of discomfort, every plea for help, every quiver of fear. He would drink it all in like fine wine.

“Very good, Juno,” he said at last. “Here you are, a recent engineering grad, sitting in my building for a job interview and you don’t even know the _first_ law of thermodynamics. You have impressed me, after all.”

Impressed him with my incompetence, I supposed. I pressed my lips together and forced myself not to cry. I would not cry in front of him. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I tried to think of something happy to keep me grounded but the anxiety got the better of me as it so often does. A single tear trickled down my cheek and I hastily wiped at it, pretending to scratch my face for cover and hoping Strike wouldn’t notice.

“Do you think this is a frivolous sort of company?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you have any idea how many electric grids we are responsible for?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you think we’d hire just anyone to write our system procedures?”

I didn’t know where he was going with this, but I hoped if I just sat there and answered his questions, he’d eventually grow bored and let me go.

“Probably not.”

“Then why,” he said, leaning forward, “did you tell your friend in HR to pass your resume on?”

Strike had said he hated nepotism. Was he just trying to punish and humiliate me for doing something he hated? Or was he just a bored asshole who had nothing better to do with his Monday mornings? I didn’t think he was in the mood to hear the whole sob story of how Emily had basically goaded me into applying and arranged everything without my knowledge. He probably wouldn’t believe me anyway.

I shrugged my shoulders. “I guess I was desperate.”

“Yes, I suppose you were.”

Instead of returning my resume, he ripped it right in half and then into quarters before balling it up and tossing it into the waste bin.

“Now get out,” he ordered.

I couldn't have left fast enough. I walked briskly out of the conference room without even a spare glance and down the elevators to the first floor and out the main entrance to the busy street below. Then I located the nearest cafe and spent the rest of the hour breathing into my purse in the bathroom stall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is gonna be your basic run-of-the-mill cliche-ridden kinky billionaire romp. If you're here for that, keep reading! If not, I am sorry I have wasted precious electrons and destroyed your faith in humanity. 
> 
> I just couldn't help myself.


	2. whips, chains, & handcuffs

My encounter with Strike had made me realize two things:

  1. He was a complete asshole
  2. His criticism hadn’t killed me



Of course, I’d known both those things on some rational level but it took experience to prove it myself. Part of my anxiety had always stemmed from a fear of criticism, especially a fear of disapproval from authority figures. Yet, here I was, after having taken quite a lot of abrasive comments from one of the most powerful men in the country and I was still alive and well.

A bit depressed, yes. But still alive.  And strangely relieved though I didn’t know what for.

When Emily finally arrived back at our apartment, she wasn’t alone. For a moment, I thought it was Wesley and contemplated hiding out in my room until they left the main area. I hated being the third wheel. But at the sound of high pitched laughter, my shoulders sagged.

_Priscilla._

I knew if I didn’t put in an appearance, she’d have some wise crack to make at my expense the next time we were forced to come face to face so I reluctantly opened my bedroom door and ventured into the kitchen.

Emily and Priscilla were seated at the coffee table at the window. Behind them, a view of the Toronto skyline set the backdrop. They were both dressed so pristinely in their form-fitting skirts and pastel blouses. Emily had elegantly pinned her hair up in her usual updo and now looked radiant in the afternoon sun.

“Oh, Juno!” she greeted with a smile. “How was your interview?”

Just the question I’d been dreading. I wouldn’t have minded so much if it weren’t for Priscilla. Somehow, it felt like a bad idea to admit how truly atrocious it was in her presence. I plastered on a fake smile and said, “Oh it was good. I don’t know if I’ll get it since there was a lot of tough competition but they liked me well enough.”

“Really?” drawled Priscilla, sounding skeptical. “Was Matt there?”

I was fairly certain Priscilla and Strike had never had a single conversation together and yet I still grew annoyed that she referred to him so informally. She only thought herself so high and mighty because she worked in R&D where Strike occasionally frequented.

“Um, yeah. But he just watched mostly. Does anyone want tea?” I said quickly, walking towards the kitchen and hoping that would be the end of the conversation.

“One for me, please,” said Emily, absently admiring her engagement ring in the light. She did that a lot when she was thinking of Wesley.

“And Matt said you did well?” called Priscilla when I’d disappeared from view.

I rolled my eyes. Of course, she never did know how to drop a subject.

“Yes,” I bluffed. “I think he liked me a lot.”

“Hmm, that’s not like him at all. He usually doesn’t say anything if he’s impressed. Mind you, when he’s _not_ impressed, that’s when you have to watch out. He’ll make his thoughts very clear.”

I wondered if Priscilla was in the running for president of an Matthias Strike fan club. It was an effort not to throw the kettle of boiling water in her face.

“Let’s shut up about Strike,” cried Emily. “He’s given our department a new stack of accounts which means I’ll wind up doing them until next Tuesday. So much for a weekend. I was really hoping to go down to the cottage with Wes.”

The pair of them chatted back and forth for a bit while I poured out the tea. It was always like this when Priscilla came over. I was reminded of the fact that despite being friends with Emily for the past ten years, she belonged to a totally different world. A world where she could spend her holidays travelling to Europe or get proposed to at the 360 or go to the opera with her rich parents. I normally never minded the fact that she had more money than me, especially since she was not one of those insufferable types. But Priscilla made her act differently.

“You know, darling,” said Priscilla, ignoring me completely when I set down the tea. “You should really go down to Royal de Versailles to get that ring fitted better. Otherwise, it might just slip off.”

Emily shook her head. “It fits fine, really. Wes was very particular about that. But what about you? I thought you were back with Maxim?”

Priscilla threw her head back with practiced laughter. “Not yet. I still want to make him squirm. Once I break it off with Orson, I’m sure he’ll come crawling back with more vigour!”

 _Maximilian, Wesley, Orson_...these were the sort of posh names that cycled through their conversations on a regular basis. It was another part of the world I was not privy to. I didn’t even a Jack or a John to gush about, let alone a Maximilian Fitzgerald Lexington III.

Men had always steered clear of me. On good days, I told myself it was because my anxiety stopped me from getting to know people. On bad days, I told myself it must be because I was defective somehow. For most people, relationships sort of just happened. Just like how best friends happened. Or birthday parties happened. It was one of life’s guarantees.

For most people, anyway.

I supposed I was not most people.

“So he’ll see you at the gala?” Emily said at last, recovering from her laughter. “Oh, that reminds me! You should come too, Juno!”

“Me?” I said, taken aback. “I don’t think I’d belong there. And I can’t exactly get an invite, anyway.”

Every year, SE Corp held their annual company gala in July to celebrate innovation and to thank their employees for a job well done. It wasn’t as huge as their annual Christmas parties, but it still drew quite a crowd, especially top executives from their competitors and the occasional celebrity.

“Nonsense!” cried Emily. “I know a guy who works in finance who’s looking for a date. You’ll just love him!”

I knew at that moment Emily had no real interest in dragging me to the gala. She knew as well as I did that I floundered in social situations. This was just another one of her attempts to set me up with someone. It was annoying but I found it endearing that she hadn’t give up on me yet.

“Are you talking about Theodore?” asked Priscilla. By the way she said the name, I could tell she wasn’t fond of him.

Emily shot her a look that was meant to be covert, but I caught it anyway.

“Theo is a great guy. And I really want you to come this year!”

I didn’t say anything but the serene smile plastered on Priscilla’s face was getting to me.

“What?” I asked her.

“Nothing.  I was just thinking that Theo is so...vanilla. Not exactly the guy to go to for a leather-clad spanking sessions, eh Juno?”

“ _Priscilla_!” hissed Emily as I turned beet red. “God, you are literally the worst.”

I forced a laugh, trying to play along but on the inside a part of me had just shrivelled up and died.

Last month, I’d made the mistake of letting Priscilla into my room. She claimed she just wanted to look around the apartment but when she came to stand by the bookshelf beside my bed, I’d known I’d made a huge mistake.

Hardly anyone came into my room so I didn’t see much harm in sprinkling my collection of classic literature with the occasional naughty book. A copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ stood right beside _The Story of O_ . One of my favourite trashy erotic novels, titled _His Silent Submissive_ , was sandwiched between _The Great Gatsby_ and Camus’ _L’Etranger_ . It was an eclectic collection to be sure, but it was also so close to my bed. Whenever I lied awake at night, unable to sleep, I’d  reach over and grab a trashy book with a ridiculous title like _The Prince’s Rebellious Slave_ and escape. Almost all of them involved a Master/slave relationship.

It had been my dirty secret for years. Even while I was sharing a room with Emily in college, she never knew anything about my less-than-vanilla sexual fantasies. And why would she? As soon as I’d discovered I was some kind of kinky freak, I’d vowed I’d never let anyone know my secret. I was already socially retarded as it was.

But now Priscilla knew the embarrassing secret I’d kept hidden and she wouldn’t let it go. It become a sort of joke to her.

“I would have never guessed, Juno,” she’d say in the middle of some conversation. “Lady in the streets, kinky in the sheets!”

It was worse if we were in public where strangers could overhear. For that reason, among other things, I avoided going out in public with her lest I unknowingly did something that provoked her to tease me. Emily was a bit nicer about it, but I knew she found it just as strange.

“Um, I don’t know,” I said at last, trying to think up a quick excuse. “I might be busy that night.”

That was obviously a lie. I was never busy. I was unemployed and with a threadbare social life. I only left the house for job interviews and grocery shopping---something the pair were painfully aware of.

“C’mon, Juno! Live a little. You’ll like Theo, I promise.”

 

###

 

I did not like Theo.

He was one of those annoying finance types that only talked about the stock market or how well his real estate investments were doing. I could tell he didn’t like me either. As soon as the six of us arrived, Theo immediately escaped and disappeared in the crowd of sleekly dressed people.

Abandoned by my date, I really didn’t want to play fifth wheel to the Emily/Wesley/Priscilla/Orson clique that had quickly forgotten my existence. They clung to each other’s sides and chatted up important looking people about politics, the stock exchange, and whether or not they’d spotted Gweynth Paltrow by the bar.

That familiar panic rose up in my chest and I quickly made my way to the dessert table to distract myself. I told myself if I couldn’t handle it, then I’d hole up in the bathroom until the evening was over. It wouldn’t be the best of nights, but it certainly wouldn’t have been my worst.

I gingerly selected a slice of cheesecake when I noticed Strike standing in the center of the room, watching me. I blinked and he looked away, talking to a group of men in suits and appearing bored. He was wearing a dark three-piece suit and I couldn’t deny he looked great it in. The tailored jacket accentuated his broad shoulders. I had a vision of him fisting my hair and forcing me to my knees.

 _Now you’re going to get it,_ he said, taking off his belt.

I shook myself. That’s enough of that, Juno. It’s not like I had a chance with him anyway. Even without the disastrous interview, the woman that was on Strike’s arm looked suspiciously like a Victoria's Secret model. I turned my attention back to the cakes, accepting my fate as a cat lady.

Some time later, Emily found me at a back table and motioned with her hands. “What are you doing hiding here? Come meet people!”

I knew Emily was honestly trying to get me out of my shell and I felt too guilty declining so I went along with her. If I’d known just who were were meeting, I might have responded differently. Up ahead, Priscilla was holding court with five or six people standing in a circle.

Among them was Strike.

A waiter passed by me, carrying flutes of champagne. I took one and chugged it down before Emily guided me to group.

“This is my friend, Juno,” she introduced with a smile. “We attended college together.”

They offered vague greetings but I was worried what Strike was thinking. It was possible he’d completely forgotten the disastrous interview from a week ago. He probably saw tons of job seekers and I was just another face in the crowd. Heck, with all the makeup I was wearing, he might think I was someone else entirely.

“Juno told us the interview went great,” said Priscilla, smiling in Strike’s direction. “Won’t you give us a hint as to who’s the top of your list?”  

I wanted to die. I wanted every single atom in my body to simultaneously combust and erase any trace of existence from the past and present. It couldn’t possibly get anymore embarrassing than this. But oh, it got a lot worse.

I couldn’t trust myself to look Strike in the eyes. Now, not only did he think I was incompetent and looking to cheat my way into the industry, he also knew I was a massive liar. The panic intensified and I surveyed the quickest path to the bathroom from where I was standing. My throat was so tight I knew I couldn’t speak if I tried. If I could just stand there, smile, and pretend to look interested, maybe it would just blow over and I wouldn’t have to run away after all.

“You know I can’t divulge that information,” came Strike’s smooth reply. “Besides, we don’t want Juno to lose hope, do we?”

I was startled he still remembered my name but then realized Emily had just said it not more than twelve seconds ago. I smiled appreciatively while staring at his tie. He may have been an asshole in the interview room, but he seemed keen to spare me my embarrassment in public.   

“Of course not,” said Priscilla with a conspiratorial glance my way.

What she said next however, I will never be sure whether it was an accident of too much champagne or a deliberate attempt at humiliation:

“Juno’s rather resilient, anyway. She’s into the whole whips, chains, and handcuffs thing.”


	3. an indecent proposal

Time slowed down. All the voices around me started to distort and warble. The only distinct noise I could make out was the frantic thumping of my own heartbeat. Strange eyes were on me, inspecting me, judging me, laughing at me. My throat squeezed shut, my stomach lurching wildly. I couldn’t even speak to say, “Excuse me” before rushing off to the bathroom, face in my hands.

I didn’t register my running down the hall. I didn’t register pushing open the door and locking myself into a stall. I didn’t register any of it because my mind was swarming with unfamiliar faces laughing hysterically. I cupped my mouth with both hands and tried to slow down my breathing.

Vaguely, I remembered hearing Priscilla’s voice saying, “Oh I think I might have embarrassed her.”

Priscilla wouldn’t have dared to do that to anyone else but me. She wouldn’t have dreamed of doing it to Emily, or Orson, or hell, even Maxim, no matter how vindictive she was feeling. Because she considered me inferior to her, she thought she could treat me however she wanted. I was nothing more than an amusing pet Emily had adopted who existed merely for her whims.

What were those people thinking now? What was Strike thinking? God, why did I even care what he thought? I was never going to come within a 100 mile radius of SE Corp. I was never planning on seeing those people again.

I was in the middle of making plans to move to Antarctica when Emily knocked tentatively on the stall door.

“Juno? Are you in there?”

“Go away,” I said. My own voice sounded foreign and strangled to me. The voice of a stranger.

“I am so _so_ sorry for what happened. God, I can’t believe her sometimes!”

 _Then why are you friends with her_ , I wanted to ask. Instead I kept my mouth shut and tried to suppress the sobs that were shaking my body.

“Do you want to leave?” she asked softly. “I can grab Wes and we can head back to the apartment---”

“No, no!” I said quickly. “You stay. I’ll...be okay.”

I knew the main reason Emily had come was to socialize with her strict boss and eventually convince him to give her the promotion she’d been pining for. I couldn’t deprive her of that opportunity just because I’d freaked out. Besides, all of this Priscilla's fault. If anything, she should be the one trying to comfort me in the bathroom.

“What if I call you a cab?”

That was worse. Emily was rich, sure, but the cab fare from here back to our apartment would be well over $100 and I didn’t want to owe her any more money than I already did.

“No, I’ll come back. I just want to be alone right now.”

I could sense she was hesitating on the other side of the door. “Okay...I’ll come back in a while check on you.”

I listened to sound of her heels slowly leaving before sighing and closing my eyes. In earnest, I wanted to die.

 

###

 

After a few idle moments, the bathroom suddenly filled up again. Crowds of women rushed in to check their makeup and talk loudly to their friends. My sanctuary was becoming suffocating and I thought it would be a good idea to search for some fresh air outside.

I didn’t bother checking my reflection before leaving the bathroom. I was positive I looked like shit and I didn’t need the visual confirmation. I walked briskly through the room, avoiding eye contact, until I reached the terrace and closed the narrow doors behind me.

The sounds of the party faded and instead I was greeted with a cool breeze and the sounds of the city below. The street lamps cast the roads in a yellow glow as miniature cars streaked by. The office buildings across the street were pinholed with windows of lights. Down below, someone was walking their dog while a distant street corner was occupied by a lonely guitarist.

I noticed someone had inexplicably left two glasses and a half-empty wine bottle on the balustrade and decided I could use a drink.  I was in the middle of pouring myself a glass when the terrace door banged open and I jumped, the bottle slipping from my grasp and falling over twenty stories below.

I watched in amazement as Matthias Strike stood at the doorway, eyebrows raised, as the sound of smashing glass reached us a moment later. The apology was immediately on my lips, but then I stopped myself. Why was I apologizing to him? It wasn’t his wine. It wasn’t his house. I idly wondered what his house did look like before snapping out of it.

“You startled me,” I said stupidly.

He didn’t say anything at first. He stepped forward and surveyed the ground below, taking in the chards of glass and dark purple liquid seeping into the sidewalk. It was lucky that no one was standing below. He picked up the empty glass and clinked it against mine.

“Cheers,” he said, completely humourless.

Under any other circumstances, if he hadn’t just been privy to my most private sexual fantasies a mere twenty minutes ago, I might have laughed. Instead, I chugged the wine down, hoping he would leave. Other than Priscilla herself, he was the last person I wanted to deal with.

“I’m sorry she embarrassed you,” he said. “Miss Lowell has an incomprehensible sense of humour.”

Oh God. Strike accidentally wandering into me was one thing. _Strike feeling sorry for me_? That was something I couldn’t deal with. Not after how willing he was to tear me apart during the interview. He must think me extremely pathetic to be playing nice.

“She didn’t embarrass me,” I said, trying to play it cool. “I don’t even know what she was referring to, haha.”

Strike was standing a carefully measured distance away, as if I was a bird he didn’t want to scare off. But even from the distance, I could see him give me a skeptical sidelong glance.

“There’s nothing wrong with liking it rough in bed.”

If I’d had any wine left, I would have choked on it. I was thankful it was dark so he couldn’t see how red I was turning. Did Strike just say what I thought he did? Were we really having this conversation right now?

He continued, completely unfazed: “Some women go a step further and give up all their control.”

I didn’t know how to respond to this. I didn’t know what he expected me to say. I simply nodded and said, “Yes.” but I was too mortified to offer any more information.

“What I’m trying to say,” he said, drawing a little closer, “is that your fantasy doesn’t have to stay a fantasy.”

I turned to him, the smell of his cologne was intoxicating. Even in the dim light, I could see the way his long lashes framed those smoky eyes, holding me in their gaze. He had the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow and I wanted to rub my hands along his jaw.

“What are you talking about?”

“You like to be submissive. I like to be dominant. We could work something out, if you like.”

I blinked up at him. Was this a joke? Had someone slipped a hallucinogen in my drink? How had I entered this bizarre twilight zone where the CEO of SE Corp was propositioning me for kinky sex?

Anger flared through me.

“Did Priscilla put you up to this? This isn’t a very funny joke.”

He drew back, offended. “Does it sound like I’m joking?”

“I don’t know,” I said, honestly. “Seems more likely that you came here to humiliate me.”

“I’m not as cruel as you think,” he said and then added with a twisted smile, “Unless you want me to be.”

My mind flashed back to that vision again, of me on my knees, helpless and at his mercy. The sound of a belt unbuckling. A sadistic taunt. A breathy gasp escapes me.

I shook my head. “We barely even know each other. Do you often proposition complete strangers?”

His eyes never left me. “Only if I think they’re worth the risk.”

It was  hard to imagine this man had to risk anything. He had the looks, the money, the career. He could go to bed with anyone. I was baffled as to why he was still out here, talking to me when his model girlfriend is inside somewhere.

“What about your girlfriend?”

He raised an eyebrow in confusion and then nodded like he understood. “Vanessa’s not my girlfriend. She’s just my date.”

Date a supermodel and then make indecent proposals to complete strangers. What a bizarre world Strike occupied. If only I had that kind of confidence, that kind of power. I would never feel anxious again.

Maybe it was the alcohol kicking in, but I started to get curious.

“If I did agree to your ridiculous suggestion,” I said slowly. “What would happen? What would we do?”

He stuck his hands in his pockets and slowly exhaled, looking out at the city. “That would be up to you.”

“Up to me? But...I’m the submissive. I’m bad at decisions.”

He frowned. “You should get to decide how much control you give up. What your boundaries are. How else will I know how much room I have to play with?”

I swallowed. This was beyond ridiculous. Any moment now, Ashton Kutcher would come jumping out from under a chair and inform me I’d been Punk’d. How was I even having this conversation? How much had Strike had to drink?

When I didn’t say anything, he reached forward but then stopped, as if he thought the better of it.

“Perhaps I’ve overwhelmed you. I apologize for any offense.”

My confusion was mounting. He was all fire and brimstone during my interview. And now he was being polite. Maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe he really was a nice guy but he took his work very seriously. Then again, nice guys didn’t just randomly ask women for sex. And if I was honest with myself, I just didn’t trust Matthias Strike, no matter how rich and pretty he was. For all I knew, he could be serial killer who preyed on the vulnerable. Wasn’t this how a typical horror movie started? Clueless heroine goes home with a deranged murderer and winds up dead in a ditch somewhere?

“I..I don’t think I can do what you’re asking me.” I said at last.

He nodded. If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it.  Just as I thought. He probably had a long line of women to choose from.

“Can I get you cab home or are you staying?” he asked, as if the conversation we’d been having so far hadn’t even happened.

I looked back through the glass door and spotted Emily chatting away. If I was waiting for her, I would be stuck here for hours and I had no inclination to bump into anyone, least of all Priscilla. A $100 cab fare would be less than nothing to a billionaire like Strike.

“Um, I think I could use a cab, thanks.”

He opened the door and snapped his fingers, summoning a stern looking man in a tuxedo.

“Get Miss Ward a cab home and make sure you charge it to my account.”

The man nodded once and walked off, presumably to telephone a cab.

“If you change your mind,” said Strike, pulling out a crisp white card from inside his jacket and handing it to me, “you let me know.”

With that, he passed through the doors and left me alone with my swirling thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback welcome! <3  
> I hope it's not too boring.


	4. considering the offer

I didn’t know what I was feeling during the cab ride home. As I watched the city from the window, I knew the night was really just beginning. But I was used to being the first to leave, the first to be overwhelmed by it all. I usually felt depressed when I reached this part of the night, but tonight had been very different.

Priscilla had completely humiliated me in public, which was one of my worst fears. My chest still hurt at the thought of it so I shook my head to try and forget. Thankfully, that wasn’t the only memory of the night that was on my mind.

I kept taking out Strike’s business card every five minutes or so to make sure it was actually there in my purse. It was the only physical proof I had that the entire conversation hadn’t just been in my head. There was nothing flashy or special about it. It was just his name, position, and contact information beside the corporate logo, a blue circle bisected by a lightning bolt. It was one of the most iconic and recognizable logos in the world.

 

_MATTHIAS Q. STRIKE_

_Chief Executive Officer_

 

I ran my finger over the slightly raised letters. A middle name starting with Q. It could only be something like Quincy. It didn’t suit him. Quincy sounded like the name of one of Priscilla’s ex-boyfriends. Not the self-made billionaire of SE Corp.

I went over our conversation in my head again, trying to see if there was some trickery I missed; if perhaps it had been some sick joke after all. Wasn’t Strike known for his ruthlessness? What if he wanted to take revenge for lying about the interview? It seemed petty and beneath his notice, but I didn’t know him very well. Still, the way he spoke, the way he looked at me...he seemed almost vulnerable. Like he was sharing a part of him not many people knew.

Or maybe I was just crazy and confused. I pressed the card into the back my purse and resolved not to think about it for the rest of the night.

 

###

 

Emily apologized on behalf of Priscilla the following morning. I doubted Priscilla had actually told her to pass an apology on. It was more likely she was texting all her friends about how ‘overdramatic and sensitive’ I’d been. Emily just wanted to keep the peace between us.

“How much was the cab fare?” she asked, pouring out a mug of steaming coffee. “I wished you’d told me before you left.”

“Don’t worry about it. Strike paid for it.”

Emily paused in the act of sipping her coffee. “ _Strike_? Well, that was nice of him…”

For a moment I contemplated telling her everything. All about our conversation on the terrace, his ridiculous offer, my reaction, even the smashed wine bottle. But I couldn’t be sure the story wouldn’t be passed on to Priscilla and that was the last thing I needed. Emily meant well but she was trying too hard to fit in with her other snobby friends.

Still, Strike was Emily’s boss’s boss and surely she knew slightly more about him than I did even if it was only through the occasional office meetings.

“Is that...not normal of him?” I asked, fishing around. “Isn’t he usually mean to people?”

“Oh, he’s ruthless. But only around the office. I hear he’s a lot better outside of work. I mean, he’s not _nice_ , exactly, but he’s not a total dickhead either. Why? Are you worried what Priscilla said will affect them hiring you? Because if it does, I can get my boss to---”

“No, it’s fine. I was just asking.”

Affect them hiring me. What a joke. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have even been in their consideration. I figured that was the most I could fish out of Emily without being suspicious. My plans to put the entire offer out of my head weren’t going well. I would be in the middle of preparing dinner or job hunting when I would think about the card in my purse again, tempting me.

_Call him, Juno._

But fuck. I couldn’t even entertain the idea of calling him without getting cold feet. What if his secretary picked up and demanded to know why I was calling their CEO? What if he told me he’d changed his mind? What if he had me put on speakerphone and let the entire office laugh at me? Dr. Baker would tell me I was being irrational, that no one in their right mind would put that much effort to humiliate someone they barely knew. Still, the paranoid feeling persisted for weeks whenever I thought of contacting him.

The worst part was how the fantasies changed. It was no longer a faceless stranger, but Strike who pinned me against a wall, or bent me over his lap, or held me down on the floor. He’d whisper bad things in my ear:

_This is what you get for teasing me._

_It’s not going to suck itself, you whore._

_You like that, don’t you? Tell me you like it._

I felt so guilty every time he starred in one of them, as if some invisible force in the universe would inform him that I’d just gotten off while thinking about him. I was almost thankful he didn’t call. In fact, I didn’t hear a thing from him after that night. I guess he really had moved on.

I contemplating taking the card out and tossing in the trash, a poetic way to help me let go. Every time I came close to it, I chickened out. Strike had probably forgotten all about the offer and moved on with his busy life while I was still clinging to his business card like it was a cherished pet. Either contact him or don’t, Juno. Don’t keep this in your purse for the rest of your life, wondering what could have been.

I exhaled slowly, deciding I could at least email him. It was a lot less intimidating than talking on the telephone. At worst, he just wouldn’t reply and I’d take the hint. I spent at least half an hour agonizing over what to say before I finally settled on something simple.

 

 _From:_ _[juno.ward@gmail.com](mailto:juno.ward@gmail.com)_

 _To:_ [ _strike@strkenergy.com_](mailto:strike@strkenergy.com)

_Dear Mr. Strike,_

_If you haven’t changed your mind, I’ve decided to accept your offer after all. Can we talk?_

 

I hit send after re-reading it five or six times. Ten minutes went by and no reply. Of course, Strike was a busy man. What if he didn’t even remember me? Should I have mentioned who I was at the gala? Jeez, if he’d forgotten me already, I didn’t think he was worth it anyway. I was obsessing over this too much. Clicking refresh every five seconds wasn’t helping my anxiety. Just as I was about to close my laptop, an email popped into my inbox and I nearly jumped. 

 

 _From:_ [ _strike@strkenergy.com_ ](mailto:strike@strkenergy.com)

_To:_ [ _juno.ward@gmail.com_ ](mailto:juno.ward@gmail.com)

_Juno,_

_I’m glad you reconsidered. When are you free?_

 

I sat in stunned silence for a minute or two, my fingers twitching to reply. His email seemed so much more breezier and informal than mine. I could just imagine him typing it on his phone in two seconds while he was in the middle of some boring meeting. No anxiety, no double-checking, just business. I hesitated before I gave him my answer. I didn’t want him to think I’d been doing nothing for the past three weeks except agonizing over his offer. I tried to play it cool and pretend like I was busy but could manage to be free on Thursday around 10:00. It was too late for breakfast and too early for lunch so there was no way I’d have to eat in front of him. I hated eating in front of people.

His second response was much quicker than the first. He simply sent me an address and a note that said, _See you at ten_.

What if it was an address of some weird sex dungeon? What if it was his house? I didn’t think I could go to his house. God, get a grip, Juno. After some quick googling, I discovered it was the address of an upscale cafe in downtown Toronto, just two blocks away from the SE Corp building. I mean, duh. We were just going to talk.

Oh God, _we were going to talk_. Like, I was physically going to be sitting next to him and talk about what I wanted. Sexually. But this was what I wanted, right?

The fantasy had been safe, however. I could be with anyone, do anything, and not fear the consequences. If I got scared, I could stop thinking and it would be over. This was something else entirely and I wasn’t sure I was ready to face the reality of my decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY CRAP.  
> This scene ended up being three times longer than I intended because Juno has way too many racing thoughts for me to even type out in full. I’d wanted to write their meeting scene but it looks like that will have to wait until next time.


	5. an indecent discussion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Contains discussions of consensual non-consent scenarios that could be triggering to some readers.

Echo Cafe lied at the corner of University Avenue and Adelaide Street, right in the heart of the financial district. All around me were towering skyscrapers that acted like giant mirrors, reflecting back a series of cumulus clouds drifting by overhead. The morning rush hour was long gone, but the roads were still busy with motorists and waiting taxis.

Taking the subway and venturing into the heart of the city would normally be another frantic experience for me. But I’d already raided Emily’s liquor cabinet this morning and was buzzed enough not to care. Dr. Baker had warned me against self-medicating on alcohol but what she didn’t know wouldn’t kill her. Besides, there was simply no way I could get through this meeting without some liquid courage.

I reached the cafe earlier than expected and decided to find the most private spot I could manage. The place was ritzy, yet cozy, with more intimate booths located at the back, away from prying eyes. The lighting was dimmer away from the main windows and I tucked into a booth at the back corner, pleasantly surprised at the soft cushions. It was mid-morning but there were only a few customers, most of them looking like they were in no hurry to get to work, eating a croissant or perusing the paper. I was glad I’d opted to wear a corporate dress instead of throwing on jeans and t-shirt. After all, you didn’t have to wander far in the financial district before encountering someone donning Prada or Armani.

I fiddled with the hem of my dress as I waited. The waitress either didn’t care or didn’t notice me sitting at the back. I realized I was zeroing in on the point of no return. There was nothing stopping me from declaring the whole thing as madness and jumping on the next subway home. But I was the one that wanted this. I wanted to take this chance, to see where it would lead for once.

My thoughts were cut short by the sound of the entrance opening as Matthias Strike walked in.

He was wearing a black double-breasted waistcoat, tailored slacks, a crisp white shirt with black pinstripes and, of course, those polished Oxfords tap, tap, tapping as they made their way towards me. The effect was hypnotic. He looked like he’d just walked off the cover of GQ. Just the way his sleeves draped the powerful muscles of his shoulders and forearms was enough to make me swoon.

“Juno,” he said, by way of greeting. “May I sit?”

It seemed ridiculous to me that Strike would need to ask permission for anything, yet alone ask _me_ , but I nodded nonetheless, wondering if I looked as flushed as I felt. He seated himself across from me and had barely raised his hand to get the waitress’s attention before she scuttled over with a beaming smile and took our order.

After she’d left, he took a moment to take me in and I couldn’t fathom what he was thinking. There was something oddly...domestic about the sight of him in a nice suit, sitting at a table like anyone else. But behind those quiet eyes was something primal, something predatory. My eyes flitted over the sharp angles of his jaw, the muscled column of his neck, and over the long and dexterous fingers of his hand that he could use to grip and choke and slap and spank. I could look at Strike, calm and collected, and immediately picture him ripping off his tie and shoving it in my mouth. _Keep quiet or you’ll take it up the ass._

God, what was wrong with me? I must have turned thirty different shades of red. 

“You look good in white,” he said at last.

“You look good...just, like, in general.”

He smiled a little at my fumbling. Did he like that? Did he like my fear? Maybe that should have been a warning bell but if anything, it just got me even hotter. I was more fucked up than I thought.

“Why don’t you start by telling me what you want out of this arrangement.”

 _Arrangement_. Like we were discussing business. Although, perhaps to Strike, this was just another business deal he was hoping to close in on before lunch. Still, I had anticipated all kinds of questions.

“Well, I don’t know you very well so I was hoping we could...I don’t know, do a test run or something. Before we decide whether we want to do this again.”

Strike considered that for a moment and said, “Of course. We can go over your limits first and then talk about what kind of scene you’d be comfortable to start with.”

I was struck by the absurdity of the situation. He was being so polite about the best way he could theoretically fuck the shit out of me and I was sitting there nodding my head like this was all perfectly within the norm of morning coffee conversation etiquette.

“I don’t mind getting rough,” I said, slowly, “but I don’t want you to do anything to me that would actually make me bleed. And I know that I’ll probably get bruised at one point, but I don’t exactly want a black eye.”

“It won’t be a problem. What else?”

“Um...I don’t want to do anything in public. If you want me to wear something in private, then okay. But I don’t want anyone else knowing what we’re up to. I get embarrassed really easily and I don’t deal with it well.”

“That’s fine. I’m not into exhibitionism.”

“And nothing involving other people or other couples.”

“Good. I don’t like to share.”

I blushed a little before pressing on: “Bondage is okay, as long as I’m not hanging upside down. Hot wax is a no-no. And I can’t deep throat without gagging yet, so go easy on me the first time.”

Strike simply watched me, his lips curling slightly, and I just knew he was picturing it. He was picturing being inside my mouth right that instant and the sudden rush of heat between my legs had me pressing my thighs together in vain. In the few moments we’d been talking, I noticed our legs had inched closer under the table. I was suddenly aware of the brush of his slacks against my bare knees and I suppressed a breathy sigh.

“Is that all?” he purred, satisfied with the effect he had on me.

I swallowed. There was one other thing but I was too ashamed to even say it. Still, if he hadn’t run for the hills after everything I’d said so far, there was no reason to think he’d do it now. We had to be honest with each other. Sooner or later, he’d ask me outright anyway.

“Anal sex is a soft limit,” I said quickly and then pretended to be extremely interested in the sugar dispenser before me.

When he didn’t say anything, I looked up to read his reaction, but his eyes were dark and hooded by his long lashes so I couldn't work out what he was thinking. His hand reached up to adjust his tie like it was suddenly too tight for him

“Thank you, Juno. I’ll keep that in mind.”

What did _that_ mean?

“Well, what about you? Do you have any limits?”

I’d only said it to change the subject but Matthias Strike had a surprisingly long blacklist of activities. He sighed and started counting on his fingers.

“Let’s see, nothing involving open flames, chemicals, electrocution, firearms, injections, feces, urine, blood, animals, asphyxiation, fisting, pet play, food, tattoos, or making you ingest anything you wouldn’t normally ingest, unless, of course, it’s my semen.”

 _Christ._ I stared at him, stunned. Clearly, he’d given this a lot more thought than I did. Or he’d been doing it for longer.

“Wow, that’s a very exhaustive list, Mr. Strike.”

“Please, call me Matthias.”

“Matthias,” I said, trying the name out on my tongue. I liked the way it sounded on my lips. “Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?”

"Yes. Are there any triggers I should be aware of?" 

"Um, I'm okay with being called names. More than okay with it actually. But I don't want any negative comments about my physical appearance. I was bullied a lot in high school so...I don't know, I guess it's still a sore spot for me. You can call me a bitch or a whore or stupid cunt, but please don't call me fat or ugly."

Matthias looked surprised. "No, absolutely. I'm sorry about that."

I shook my head, pretending to be cool though I knew I was convincing no one. "It was a long time ago. Anything else?"  

“Yes. If you’re okay with it, I think we should exchange medical records to prove we’re both clean.”

Wow, I hadn’t even thought of that. I’d spent so much time obsessing over and researching limits that I’d forgotten the obvious.

“Of course, if you want. But I’m also not on birth control so…”

He waved his hand dismissively. “I took care of that with a vasectomy five years ago.”

Well, someone had a shitty childhood.

“So you've never wanted children?” I asked. 

He shook his head. “I have no interest playing Daddy inside or outside the bedroom.”

I almost snorted my tea. But I admired how he was so sure of everything; how he knew himself so well.

“Now that that’s done with,” he said, leaning forward and catching my eye, “why don’t you tell me what turns you on?”

I blushed and looked down at my tea, idly stirring it with a spoon.

“I have lots of fantasies...getting punished, being humiliated---no, not just being humiliated. Being _degraded_ . I don’t know why that turns me on but it does. I also dream about…” I hesitated for a moment, not sure whether I wanted to share the next piece of information or not. “I dream about being forced, taken against my will, being made to do and say things I don’t want to. Well, I mean, I _do_ want to do them but I like to pretend like I don’t. If that makes sense. Gosh, now I’m rambling.”

“So you want to pretend to be raped.”

When he said it like that, I nearly flinched. It wasn’t question, just a statement; an observation. I nodded slowly, wondering if I should have just kept my mouth shut. I mean, real people dealt with rape and sexual assault and here I was, getting off to it. What was wrong with me?

“Sorry...I know, that’s fucked up.” I said, quickly. “Actually it’s all pretty fucked up. I don’t know why I’m like this. You’re probably not interested in anything I’ve said so far---”

“Are you kidding?”

His expression was completely serious and I squirmed a little under the intensity of those stormy eyes.

“I mean, I don’t know. Aren’t you a sadist?”

He looked away. “No, Juno, I wouldn’t call myself a sadist---at least not in the physical sense. I don’t derive much satisfaction from watching someone in pain. But...I guess I could be an emotional sadist. There’s nothing I like more than taking a nice girl and completely ruining her, completely possessing her---body, mind, and soul.”

He slowly raised his gaze to me and I shivered. I could imagine it too. I could imagine him doing it to me. It was that easy. And I wanted it. I didn’t know why exactly---after all, it was kind of fucked up---but I wanted it anyway. I wanted him to forget our plans, just pull me into the bathroom, and have his way with me. My body was tingling with need, hanging on to his every word. 

“I think I’d like it…” he said in a low voice, “if you pretended to be scared. If you struggled and begged and cried.”

His tone was suddenly vicious and venomous, nothing like the way he’d been speaking to me before---so civil and polite. No, this was the man from the interview but with even more cruel intent and I wanted every lick of his whip. And God, my panties were getting soaked just from the way he was looking at me; like he wanted to pull the clothes from my body and torture me until I gave him what he wanted.

A buzzing sound interrupted the charged air between us and I slowly exhaled as Matthias pulled out his phone and read a text.

“Dammit, I have a meeting in ten minutes.”   

“You should go. We can continue this another time.”

He looked up, his expression apologetic. As if I hadn’t just seen the darker side of him he kept underneath the surface. It excited and intrigued me more than it should have.

“We’ll talk again soon. In the meantime, what’s your safeword?”

“Oh,” I said, smiling at a private joke. “It’s Oxford.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so yeah, that’s the gist of where this story is going.  
>  The sex scenes will be violent, demeaning, and possibly distressing to some readers so please escape this fic now if you're not here for that! I've added new tags to warn people of what kind of content they can expect.
> 
> I'd love to hear any feedback, so please leave a comment if you can! <3


	6. did you wear this for me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Chapter contains an explicit role-play scene with consensual non-consent that may be distressing to some readers.

Fear and arousal had always felt intimately similar.

Was it bizarre that someone with an anxiety disorder wanted to be afraid? Wanted to be turned on by the blade of a knife to the throat or powerful hands pinning them down? Or was that the most natural thing in the world?

Since my initial meeting with Strike--or Matthias, as I had to remind myself to call him--we had been texting a lot. It seemed like a better idea not to go into the details of our kinky sexual appetites over his work email and since then, my days were spent with anticipatory glances at my phone screen, waiting for his next text.

We talked about the scene I wanted to do. We agreed he wouldn’t use any weapons. While it would be hot if he pulled a knife out on me, it didn’t seem like the most sensible option for our first meeting. Ditto for the bondage. I wanted an easy way to stop the scene and go home if things went downhill or I happened to change my mind.

Then there were other questions... _How rough do you want it? Can I pull your hair? Can I smack your ass? Can I slap your face? Can I take you up against the wall? On the floor? How do I get you off?_

I was flushed from head to toe just reading these questions, answering pretty much yes to everything. He kept them varied enough that I could never guess what he had planned _exactly_ but my mind was more than pleased to fill in the blanks. In my dreams, he was never nice. He was cruel, debasing, derisive. He was all claws and teeth and laugher. I was truly ashamed of the number of times his texts had sent me searching for my vibrator.

By the time the morning of our first meeting rolled around, I was almost anxious to get it over with. I’d been able to think of little else all week. I settled for a plain black dress (one I wouldn’t mind shedding), a lace balconette, and a ridiculous white thong I’d found while shopping. The thong was most certainly _not_ my usual style, but that was part of the plan.

“You’re looking perky,” Emily commented, as I pulled on my heels. “Where are you headed?”

“It’s a date,” I said, with an apologetic look.

“ _What_ ? And you didn’t think to tell me?! Juno Ward, who are you? Sneaking off on mystery dates without telling _me_?”

I laughed and reached for the doorknob before she could grab me and press me for details.

“Sorry, I just didn’t want it to be a big deal. I’ll be home late. Maybe around 10? You can start calling the cops if I don’t make it home by then!”

She pouted. “Ha ha. Not funny. At least tell me his name so I can stalk him online.”

“Um...it’s a secret!”

I opened the door and rushed out into the hall before Emily could stop me. Thankfully she wasn’t wearing any pants and stopped at the doorway to glare at me.

“If you don’t get murdered I swear I will tickle you to death when you get back!”

I gave her a sheepish smile when I reached the elevators. “I look forward to it.”

 

###

 

I wasn’t a complete idiot.

Strike may have seemed nice so far but I still had a bunch of paranoid self-timed emails and texts informing Emily and my mother about where I was going, who I was meeting, and what time I was supposed to have left. The percentage of CEOs that were clinical psychopaths was statistically higher than the rest of the population and I didn’t want to take any chances.

By the time I reached the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton, I had already trained myself not to stare like a clueless tourist. Hours spent with Emily’s family had gotten me at least somewhat accustomed to the luxury the upper-class were used to. But I was still on the job market and painfully aware I was going to have to hunt down cheaper housing if I didn’t want to wind up moving back to my mother’s with my tail between my legs. Naturally, the sight of a skinny rich girl walking past me with her Chanel handbag and miniature dog in tow irritated me no small amount.  

Strike had put us up in a private suite away from the other guests. _So they won’t hear you scream_ , he had texted. Those were the words that were repeating themselves in my head as I travelled up the elevator to the 19th floor. My breath was already shallow, my cheeks lightly flushed. It would be obvious to anyone who saw me that I was more than a little turned on and we hadn’t even gotten started. I prayed I wouldn’t be too embarrassingly wet by the time Strike pried my panties off. God, even thinking about _that_ was getting me hotter.

I knocked on the doors marked WELLINGTON SUITE and was surprised to be greeted by an elderly gentlemen in his sixties, dressed in a tux and bowtie. I opened my mouth to apologize for getting the wrong room when he smiled genially and bowed.

“Good evening, Miss de Winter,” he said, in a distinguished English accent. “Mr. Strike is right this way if you’ll follow me.”

Giddiness shot through me as I followed the man into a luxurious suite. It was furnished generously with leather sofas, plush cushions, a mahogany writing desk, and a large black dinner table for eight additional guests. The room was well-lit with hanging chandeliers and the floor-to-ceiling windows afforded me a fantastic view of the bustling city and the CN Tower just a few blocks away, lit up red and blue for the night. A large doorway on either side of the living area led off to two separate bedrooms.

By the large windows in the corner, sitting at a small table set up for two, was Strike with an ankle over his knee, reading a newspaper. He glanced up at me from atop the page and gave me a cursory once-over before politely folding the paper and setting it off to the side.

“You’ve haven’t asked our guest to sit, Carson. I thought you English butlers went out of style for being too smothering.”

Carson gave him an apologetic smile before pulling out the chair opposite to Strike. “Here you go, Miss.”

“Oh really---there’s no need to be so formal, I’m just--”

“Sit, Juno,” Strike ordered.

“Um, right. Okay.”

I sat down as gracefully as I could manage. Something about being in the presence of the English always seemed to demand grace, though Strike didn’t seem particularly bothered by it. He was wearing a white dress shirt with red pinstripes and plain cuffs, the top buttons undone. His polish Oxfords gleamed in the lamplight and I wondered if he always looked ridiculously well-dressed, even when he was alone.

I knew Strike was watching me as Carson set down two dishes and poured us both a generous amount of wine. I could almost feel him going through the list of all the possible things he could make me do. It was a wonder Carson didn’t notice or if he did, he didn’t comment on it.

“Thank you, Carson. That will be all. Now take this and piss off, already” Strike handed him a generous tip, which the butler took between his fingers.

For a moment, I thought Strike was being undeservedly rude, but Carson had a small smile playing on his lips. I wondered if they’d known each other for longer than they let on.

“Thank you, sir. And I do hope you enjoy your stay, Miss.”

Before he turned to go, I could have sworn he winked at me, as if he knew _exactly_ what we were up to. I couldn’t have turned more red if I’d tried. When I heard the door close shut in wake of Carson’s departure, that’s when I felt a small jolt of fear go through me. I was finally alone with the man who’d been starring in nearly all my sexual fantasies.

“Sorry about Carson,” said Strike. “I picked him up while I was staying in Yorkshire and haven’t been able to get rid of him since.”

“When was this?”

“Seven years ago.”

I laughed.  “He must enjoy your company.”

“Or his salary.”

I smiled, looking away from him. I didn’t know why, but I had expected Strike to jump into bed with me the moment I knocked on the door. The last thing I was expecting was a charming English butler and a fancy meal.

“You know, you didn’t have to bother with all this romance stuff.” I said, gesticulating awkwardly to the dishes in front of us. I didn’t have a clue what was on my plate but I imagined it was something French and impossible to pronounce.

He smirked. “Maybe I just like playing with my food.”

The look he was giving me---like he knew every dirty thought I’d ever had about him---was enough to make me reach for my wine glass. I was going to need more than a few glasses to get this night. My gulping didn’t go unnoticed, of course.

“You’re nervous,” he stated.

“I am...I’ve never done this before.”

“You’ve never had dinner at a hotel?”

I shot him a look. “You know what I mean.”

“Oh, you mean the other thing. You’ve never arranged to have kinky sex with a near stranger before. Well, I thought the wine might help with that.”

His expression was serious as usual but I could detect a hint of a smile there. He was teasing and I was flattered, really. Flattered that he was trying to ease me into it.

“And what’s on our plates? It looks very colourful…”

“It’s hideous, I know.”

I laughed again, though I wasn’t sure Strike was entirely joking. Why was I so giggly around him? Jesus. I supposed he had that rare quality of being at ease in his own skin; the sort of settled nature that only came with age and experience. There was something indeterminately masculine about it and I couldn’t help myself from being ridiculously giddy in his company.

“ _Cailles_ _à_ _l’orange_ ,” he said ruefully. “Roasted quail in orange sauce.”

“Well, it sounds delicious.”

His cool grey eyes moved down from my eyes to my lips to my collarbone. “I’m sure it will be.”

 

###

 

Two glasses of wine and a fancy meal later, we were sitting side by side on the leather couch. The large golden curtains had been closed, blocking my view of the city but more importantly blocking the city’s view of us. The entire right side of my body that was lightly brushing up against his was tingling with energy.

He was angled towards me and I felt the sudden thrill of being caged between him and the sofa. Being this close, I could see the inviting skin of his throat though his unbuttoned collar and I wanted desperately to kiss him there. But I knew that wasn’t how the scene was supposed to go.

His finger had been tracing lazy circles on my bare knee the entire time we talked, which had been distracting to say the least. Finally, he leaned in and captured my mouth with his own, his lips tender and soft. His tongue tasted like wine. For one blissful moment, it felt like I was in a movie.  But then I felt his palm, firm and cool, slowly trailing under my skirts. It was easy to blush, easy to gasp. That didn’t have to be faked at all. I put my hand instinctively over his and pushed it away.

“No,” I breathed, barely a whisper. “I think...I think I should be getting home now. It’s only our first date, after all.”

An exhilarating chill went through my spine as I watched his handsome features slowly turn cold and unfeeling. His eyes filled with an enticing malice that bored into me and his grip hardened, almost painfully.

“There’s no need for that,” he said, slipping his hands up my thigh once more.  I felt another surge of wetness pooling at my center and I nearly gave myself away with a soft moan.

I gripped his palm again, my small hands dwarfed against his, and tried futilely to push him away. God, he was so strong. And there was nothing I could do to make him stop.

“Please, no,” I said, trying to sound more forceful. “I really should be going.”

I made to stand up and had barely made it off the couch before two strong arms encircled me in a forceful grip and yanked me down so I was nearly sitting on top of him.

“I don’t think,” he growled in my ear, “that you understand how this works.”

Well, if I my panties weren’t already soaked by then, they certainly were now. I could feel how hard he was against my thigh and I let out a soft whimper. He felt _huge_ and the thought of being fucked roughly by someone so big only heightened my fear and arousal.

“When a nice man buys you an expensive dinner,” he said in my ear, his voice like venom, “it’s only polite to let him fuck you.”

With one hand he roughly grabbed my breast while the other made its way up my skirt again. I tried to swat him away but my hands were pinned to my sides.

“I can pay you back, please!”

He laughed in my ear, sending fresh shivers down my spine. “You can’t afford it. There’s only one way you’re going to thank me.”

He yanked up the skirt of my dress, exposing the waistband of that ridiculous thong. He hooked a finger under it, tugging roughly. “Did you wear this for me?”

“Oh, god, no, please Matthias, I’m just a virgin.”

Okay, well, that last part was bullshit but I knew it turned him on. I got a rush just from pretending to be so clueless. He stilled for a fraction of a moment before he pried down the thong, his fingernails digging into my skin.

“Then why are you dressed like whore? You wore this for me, didn’t you? Just admit it.”

“I-- _oh_.”

His calloused finger slipped under the band, brushing against my clit. I felt two of his fingers enter me and whined in response. I hadn’t asked for it, but was going to make me take it anyway. When he pulled his hand from under me, it was glistening with my own traitorous arousal. He shoved his fingers into my mouth as I struggled against him.

“God, you’re soaking wet. You wanted this, didn’t you? You were thinking about it the entire time. I knew you were a whore.”

I tried to say something---I didn’t even know what---but it ended up being a whimper against his fingers. I could taste myself on him and I felt ashamed he knew how much I wanted him. It felt so dirty to be sitting on his lap, legs spread apart, panties a tangled twist around my thighs, and a stranger’s hand exploring me, showing me how much I wanted it.

In one quick motion, he pulled my dress over my shoulders and tossed over the couch. The cold air raised goosebumps on my flesh and I instinctively tried to hide myself. But Strike was having none of that. He took hold of both my wrists roughly and wrestled me down to the floor by his feet.

“Cover yourself again and I’ll tie your arms.”

I sat kneeling by his feet, breathing hard, as he pushed my hair back over my shoulders, eyeing me. He pushed the thin material of my bra out of the way so that each of my breasts were propped up by the underwire, bared just for him. He cupped them both, giving them a squeeze as if to test them. They were already hard and sensitive. He twisted my nipples savagely hard causing me to cry out.

“Beg me to fuck you. Tell me how much you want this cock.”

He had a sardonic smile as he watched me grimace in pain. He wanted to hurt me, make me whimper, make me cry. I kept thinking, _Oh God yes_.

I couldn’t refuse him. He’d hurt me if I didn’t say what he wanted me to. I had no choice, really.

“Please fuck me,” I said, tears straining the corner of my eyes. “I want your cock inside of me.”

Shame bloomed over my cheeks as he gave me a predatory look, a look of triumph.

“Sure, sweetheart. If you want it that badly.”

He yanked my hair and dragged me across the hall into the bedroom. His grip was so tight it burned my scalp. That was when I almost said _Oxford_. But soon I was being forced face down into the bed and my hips raised ever so slightly behind me. I felt the bare thin fabric of the thong being ripped away and fear shot through me, taut and heady.

Strike positioned himself in front of me, one knee pressed into the mattress. I watched in panic as he unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it to the floor. Everything about this man was solid hard muscle. His shoulders, his biceps, his chest. He completely dwarfed me. I was powerless against him. The sound of his belt unbuckling actually made me whimper (or moan?) and for a moment I considered scrambling off the bed, just to see what he would do. Would be punish me for it?

But that was when he unzipped his slacks and pulled out his erection. He just let me stare at it, let me get a good look at what he was going to fuck me with. He was even bigger than I’d imagined: a thick hard shaft that brought to mind pain and pleasure. 

“Is this what you begged for?”

He took hold of my hair again and smeared his cock all over my face, his laughter a low rumble in his chest. Fresh tears cascaded down my cheeks as I looked up at him, helpless and vulnerable.

“Go ahead and cry, it only makes me harder.”

With that, he shoved himself inside my mouth. I moaned against his cock as I took him, my tongue sliding over the top of his shaft in easy strokes. He took care not to go too far down my throat like I’d told him but I didn’t think I’d care if I gagged on him. He held my hair as he watched the tip of his cock disappear under my lips, now probably smeared with ruined lipstick.

“I’d suck it harder if I were you,” he snapped. “Because you’re not getting any lube.”

 _Oh God_. I had no choice, really. I went to work on him, trying to take as much of his cock in my mouth as I could manage though I could still only make it halfway. My mouth felt raw and achey. He looked less than pleased with my efforts and pulled himself out of my mouth.

“Pathetic,” he said. “Can’t even take it in the throat. There’s only one thing you’re good for.”

He disappeared from view but I heard the rustling of fabric before the mattress sank around my hips, his knees on other side. Oh, _this was it_. He was going to take me and there was nothing I could do about it. He palmed both my cheeks, giving me a rough slap before I felt the tip of his cock brushing against my entrance and my whole spine went rigid with fear and arousal.

I knew he wasn’t going to be gentle. He’d told me as much beforehand. _So they won’t hear you scream_. I bunched up the sheets in my hands in anticipation, whimpering softly. I had a brief lucid moment in which I asked myself why I was even doing this. Why did I even want him to hurt me so badly? Why was I getting slicker with each passing moment?

Then, he pushed himself inside me punishingly hard and I did scream. A litany of curses flew through my mind. I felt like I was being destroyed. He didn’t stop for my cries. He just kept slamming into me _hard_ with astonishing speed. The whole bed was actually shaking under us. I had no choice but to lie there and take it.

Two columns of his arms came up on either side as he leaned over me, not even breaking his brutal pace. I cried out with the force of each of his thrusts, waves of heat and pleasure coursing through my center. With each stroke, he forced his cock deeper and deeper into me, until it almost hurt. My butt was sore and burning from smacking into his hard hips and my entire body was trembling on the bed. It was like being drilled by a jackhammer.

“Is this what you thought it was going to be like?” he taunted me. “Did you think I’d make love to you on a bed of roses?”

I heard him laugh again and my toes tingled with desire. I was so drunk on this feeling of being powerless under him, completely at his mercy. I could barely process any coherent thought except for his relentless pounding and _it hurt so good_.

“How does it feel to be fucked like a whore?”

I was incapable of speech by that point, simply moaning unintelligibly. Both our breaths were fast and shallow, barely audible over the sound of the groaning mattress. The intense friction between my legs was building to a rising crescendo. Oh God, could I actually orgasm like this?

It was when he felt him reach back and slap me one last time that did it. It was a show of power, that he could do anything he wanted to me and I’d have to take it because he was so much bigger than me; because he basically owned me. A slow but ferocious ripple of pleasure took hold of my entire body and I screamed (like, actually _screamed_!) into the mattress. I felt myself clench around his cock in a pulsating rhythm, which only made him speed up.

I felt him grow harder, grow bigger (was it even possible?) before filling me up with a warm load that made my toes tingle again.

The silence in the room then was deafening. Whereas before there was the sound of our bodies smacking into each other and the bed protesting under our assault, there was nothing but the sound of the air conditioning humming quietly.

I was too tired to move, too satiated to say anything. We were both breathing so hard. Strike had stopped thrusting but he hadn’t pulled out yet. He’d just given me the best orgasm of my life and I was too spent to even thank him.

I felt him brush my hair away from my shoulders, his touch feather light. He planted a gentle kiss there and suddenly it became the most intimate moment of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...*awkward silence*....so.....that was probably the smuttiest thing I've ever written and I totally hate myself right now (⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)⁄  
>  I hope this chapter was worth the wait! I wanted to include some important aftercare and discussion between these two but this chapter has already gotten ridiculous long so it will likely be in the next one! 
> 
> See you all in hell byeeeeee


	7. safe

We’d made a mess.

I suddenly felt ridiculously shy lying there with a towel pressed between my legs. I wasn’t sure what I had expected Strike to do after he finished. Maybe roll over and start snoring? That certainly wouldn’t have been a first for a sexual encounter.

He’d reached for a folded towel that had been sitting on the pillow and placed it underneath me before pulling out. I’d been mentally preparing myself to bolt to the bathroom as quickly as possible but I felt his palm firm against my lower back. I could feel myself dripping onto the towel and wished the mattress would just swallow me up whole.

“Stay right there,” he said, getting off the bed and disappearing into the bathroom.

Was he kidding? I could hear him run the bathwater and then I remembered my request for aftercare. _Maybe a warm bath and a Disney movie?_ It had sounded like the perfect idea at the time but now I was suddenly feeling…overwhelmed by it all. Perhaps it was the introvert in me, but all I wanted to do was dive under the covers and hide from the world. I need some alone time to process everything that had just happened. A hundred different emotions were coursing through me.

Strike emerged from the bathroom wearing boxer shorts and a white T-shirt, all evidence of our previous activities erased from his appearance, save for the messy state of his dark hair. Even in such casual attire, he still looked disgustingly good-looking. I could only stare up at him from my awkward position on the bed, completely mortified.

He gave me a cursory once over. “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

I didn’t trust myself to speak yet so I simply nodded at him, wondering how I was going to get off the bed without ruining the bedsheets. Strike was already ahead of me on that, however. He picked me up bridal style--towel and all--and carried me to the bathroom.

I wished I could have paused time then. Just being in his strong arms, pressed up against his chest, inhaling the soothing scent of jasmine made me feel safe, even if I didn’t know Strike very well at all. Yet, somehow, instinctively, I felt safe with him. _Safe_ : a feeling that was so rare for someone who was as neurotic as I was.

The bathroom was just as luxurious as the bedroom suite. The walls were a mosaic of small glittering gold tiles that made the whole room look like one giant diamond. Strike lowered me down into a vintage-style clawfoot tub, already full of steaming hot water. The heat immediately soothed my tense and aching muscles and I sighed as I sank deeper into the warm tub.

I expected Strike to leave then since I’d grown used to post-sex clean up being a private affair.

But he stayed.

He stayed to take care of me.

To say I was surprised would have been an understatement. After all, this was the same man that had play-raped me and hadn’t exactly been gentle about it. But now the same hands that had been pinning me down before were running a soapy loofah down my body. He strong arms framed either side of me as his lips brushed against my ear once again, but this time it wasn’t to hold me down while he whispered cold threats in my ear.

“Did I hurt you?”

A part of me melted at his tenderness. He had a way of making me feel like a little girl---and not necessarily in a bad way, either. A shook my head, feeling giddy again.

“No,” I said, savouring his warm breath against my cheek. “I mean, yes. But not in a way I didn’t _want_ you to hurt me. You could have been a bit more gentle when you pulled my hair, though.”

“Sorry, I was a bit excited.”

I swallowed as I felt the loofah wander south under the water. I realized (not for the first time that night) that I enjoyed being this close to him. The faint stubble along his jaw felt good against my cheek and I absently nuzzled against him. The scent of jasmine was stronger now and I closed my eyes, ready to drift off. The roleplay had taken more of my energy than I had anticipated.

I changed my mind then. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay after all. I was still processing my emotions in the aftermath, but it felt safer to do so in his arms instead of alone in my bed. Especially since Strike was unexpectedly...romantic? I’m sure he wouldn’t use that word to describe himself but he was awfully good at spoiling me.

The loofah reached between my legs and began to move in soft, carefully measured circles.

“Did you enjoy it?”

His tone was sincere. No longer threatening or condescending. Genuinely curious.

“It was perfect,” I sighed, breath hitching a little as I felt him massage my sore inner thighs. “Did you...Did you enjoy it?”

His hands stilled in the water and he turned his head slightly towards me. For a terrifying moment, I thought he would recite a list of all my offences, tell me he was disappointed in my lacklustre performance.

“I did cum inside you. I’d say I enjoyed myself just fine, wouldn’t you?”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips and I looked away shyly. For the rest of the night, I found it difficult to stop smiling.

Ten minutes later, I was out of the tub and in a warm fuzzy bathrobe, sitting on Strike’s lap as held me tightly, sipping on the hot chocolate we’d ordered from room service and singing along with Ana and Elsa. If anyone walked in, they’d see a disgustingly happy couple watching _Frozen_ , with no evidence of our kinky appetites.

And honestly? I wasn’t sure which part of the night was my favourite anymore. There were too many good moments to choose from and the sex had _already_ been mind-blowing to begin with. Maybe I had turned into a sentimental sap, after all.

 

###

 

It was only when I woke up the following morning with a beaming smile on my face did I truly appreciate what Strike had done for me.

Not just the sex (which was, yes, _unbelievably amazing_ ), but everything leading up to it and after it. The dinner, the conversation, that stupidly charming English butler, the warm bath, holding me in those blankets, watching that children’s movie of all things...all of came together like an expertly planned evening meant to give me maximum satisfaction and minimum emotional turmoil.

Being around the web, I had read enough BDSM horror stories to be weary of the encounter. That’s why I had expected Strike to jump into bed the moment I entered the suite and kick me out the moment we were finished, leaving me on my own to deal with my emotions.

But he had done the complete opposite. So instead of feeling guilty, ashamed, or worthless, I felt like a million bucks.

“I fucked Matthias Strike,” I whispered to the bathroom mirror. “And it felt _amazing_. Suck on that, Prissy Poo.”

I ate breakfast in a drunken happy daze. Emily raised her eyebrow at my mood on more than one occasion.

“Some date, huh?” she said, with a bit of annoyance. “I wish you would just tell me his name.”

“I did.”

“Mark Smith? Ha. Good one. Why are you keeping him a secret? And judging from your stupid smile, I doubt dinner and a movie is _all_ you did last night.”

A tinge of guilt soured my mood but I just wasn’t ready to tell Emily yet. Besides, I had the sneaking suspicion and Strike didn’t intend for the contents of his private sexual life to go viral.

I shrugged my shoulders. “It was a hell of a dinner.”

I told myself I wouldn’t but I ended up spending the rest of the day stalking Strike on Wikipedia. I was surprised to learn he’d been married once (now divorced). That led to another rabbit hole of stalking his ex-wife (Charlotte Strike, née Banks), who turned out to be a big corporate lawyer working for West & Exeter. That bit of information would have been intimidating on its own, but then I made the mistake of searching her name under the images tab and _well_. Let’s just say Charlotte had certainly won the gene pool lottery of beauty and brains. A headshot from West  & Exeter’s corporate website showed a stunning woman with strawberry blonde hair, emerald green eyes, and perfect facial proportions. The smile she gave the camera had an edge of either mystery or arrogance---it was hard to tell. Though to be fair, my obvious jealousy was probably clouding my judgement. I noticed she hadn’t taken her maiden name back after the divorce. Was she too lazy to go through the paperwork or was she trying to send some kind of message?

The whole thing did add another layer to Matthias Strike. I mean, being someone’s wife was different from being thier...fuckbuddy? Kinky submissive? I wasn’t exactly sure what we were at the moment. It added life experience that I didn’t have. Then again, Strike was a ten years older than me _and_ he was a billionaire. It didn’t make sense to compare our lives. The photo of Charlotte suddenly seemed threatening, her smile smug. _He had me first_ , she seemed to say.

How had I even gotten so attached in the first place? I shut my laptop in frustration just as Priscilla and Emily bounded through the door. And good timing too because the last thing I needed was for Prissy Poo to see me obsessively stalking Charlotte Strike.

“Juno, Juno, Juno,” sang Priscilla in a tone that grated my ears. “So you finally landed a date all on your own. I feel like a proud mother.”

She wiped away at imaginary tears while I contemplated stabbing her with the kitchen knife. Emily giggled and shook her head.

“Sorry, but we basically spent the whole time trying to determine the identity of your mystery man.”

It was tempting. More than tempting, especially with Priscilla standing there with a condescending smirk on her face that I very much wanted to wipe off. I could have said it. I could have stood up and told them, why yes, I had kinky sex with Strike and it was the greatest experience of my life but I did have a shred of class left so I simply shrugged again, hoping they would give up and drop it.

Apparently, Priscilla wasn’t satisfied with this.

“Why are you being so secretive?” She asked, a delighted smile on her face. “Oh my god. Did you finally find some dungeon master to tie you up?”

I rolled my eyes. “Shut up, Priscilla.”

My candor threw her for a moment but she continued to laugh at my expense. Oh, if only she knew the half of it.

 

###

 

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” I heard him say. “I just wanted to call to check up on you. Are you still okay?”

I couldn’t stop the smile entering my voice. “I’m great, actually. Well, I’m sore too, but sore in a good way. I didn’t know you’d be so sweet.”

“I’m not being sweet,” came his curt reply. I couldn’t help myself from rolling my eyes. “I’m...planning for the future.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wanted to know how much pain you could take and still be okay with.”

“I told you. I’m okay with getting rough.”

“Good, because what we did last night was fairly tame in my book.”

I swallowed, hearing that venom enter his voice again.

“I know,” I said, trying to keep an even tone. “We agreed no knives, restraints, or toys for the first time. I’d...like it if you wanted to use that kind of stuff on me, though.”  

A pause.

“Oh, I do want to use that kind of _stuff_.”

I felt my heart racing again; my head filling with the same heady arousal his voice seemed so talented at evoking. A million different scenarios flashed through my mind. So many options to choose from.

“What would we do?”

“We’ll talk again soon. Good night, Juno.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this was a bit of a filler chapter but I did really want to write all that aftercare stuff. It will come in handy later. Anyways, hope you enjoyed seeing this other side of Strike. Kinkier times lay ahead, my friends (◡‿◡✿)


	8. say your prayers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains a lot of degrading dirty talk that could be triggering to some readers. Just a heads-up.

In the end, the only affordable housing I could get on such short notice was a musty old Victorian residence across from the Newman Center.

On the plus side, I could finally get away from unwanted intrusions from Priscilla and it certainly was nice to be living so close to the university campus. Robarts Library was across the street and the Mechanical Engineering Building where I’d finally gotten a post as a teaching assistant was a simple ten minute walk.

I tried not to think too hard about the negatives as I stood in my new cramped bedroom and surveyed my surroundings. The house was practically a hundred years old and hadn’t been renovated in ages. An old radiator jutted out awkwardly from beneath the tiny window, shrouded in cobwebs. The dark red carpet was spongy in place and did nothing to dilute the sound of creaking floorboards underneath. The walls were uneven, as if there were layers upon layers of ancient wallpaper. And no matter how hard I tried to invite a draft in from the narrow window, I couldn’t manage to get rid of that musty smell that clung to the place.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

I was stuck sharing a house with Meredith Noseley, one the _many_ charms of living so close to the university chaplaincy.

“I know the room is small,” she said, standing at the doorway. “But think about the _blessings_! It’s only a five minute walk from church and we can help out our ministry at the Newman Center when they need a helping hand. God really does have a plan for bringing you here!”

I forced a smile and avoided looking right into her eyes lest she sense the flaming inferno of hellfire that surrounded my latest activities with Strike. I was not proud of myself for bullshitting my way into the St. Maria Goretti Catholic Women’s Residence but Meredith was an old acquaintance and I wasn’t in a position to turn down any options. All the tenants of St. Maria’s (or “the M”, as some ridiculous people were calling it) were expected to support the U of T campus ministry. As far as I was concerned, this was just karma for waiting at the last minute to find housing.

“And just to remind you again of the house rules,” Meredith continued, “you’ll be seen as a role model to the younger students so please don’t engage in any unsavoury behaviour. The campus is full of worldly influences: drinking, partying, drugs, sex, you name it. As residents of the M, we’re expected to offer an alternative lifestyle for incoming freshman. Of course, that doesn’t mean you can’t have fun, ha!”

She smacked me a little too hard on the shoulder and started guffawing. “I know we don’t look it, but we’re pretty much known as the party house at church!”

Somehow, I got the sense Meredith and I had completely different definitions of ‘party’.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” I told her diplomatically. “Anything else before I settle in?”

“Ah, yes, house rules.” She tapped her finger to a framed document behind the door that I hadn’t noticed before. “All the rules you read when you signed the lease are here for your perusal. Every week, you’ll have a different assignment: cleaning the bathroom, taking out trash, tidying the living room, washing dishes, buying toiletries, etc. Schedule will be posted downstairs in the main hall. Absolutely no shoes allowed in the house. No drinking or smoking of any kind. If you’re planning on using the living room for small get-togethers, please let me and the other girls know within 24 hours. Female friends are allowed to sleepover but they will have to share your room, _not_ the living room. Joining weekly prayer meetings are optional, but _highly recommended_. The girls have the right to ban certain people from visiting the house if they feel their presence makes them uncomfortable. And of course, I’m sure I don’t even have to tell you this, but men aren’t allowed to stay overnight.”

I nodded along dumbly. “Right.”

“You sound a little disappointed about that last one.”

“I-What? _Me?_ No!”

“I’m just kidding! I promise not to do any bed checks, ha, ha, ha! But seriously, no male visitors past midnight. Okay, well that’s all for now. Please do join us for the evening rosary if you can!”

“Um, thanks, Meredith.”

 

###

Given my recent change of scenery, my meetings with Strike were going to have to work around the midnight rule. He didn’t seem too concerned about it.

(14:15) _I don’t need to stay past midnight to torture you._

I shivered at his latest text. It was hard to concentrate at work when every idle moment I had was full of ravishing fantasies that left me flushed from head to toe. It was a wonder none of the students noticed. But if I was being honest, I was more thankful that Meredith hadn’t noticed. Strike wasn’t exactly my boyfriend. I wasn’t exactly sure what to call our...relationship. Was it a relationship? My mind kept going back to the word Strike had used during our first meeting and it seemed aptly descriptive: _arrangement_.

Friday evening meant most of the university populace was heading home for the weekend or getting ready to hit the bars. Even on my walk home from campus, I could spot over-eager freshmen excitedly talking over their plans. It almost made me nostalgic for the carefree weekends spent with Emily.

Almost.

By the time I reached the residence, some of the girls had already left for the bus home, much to my relief. I had only spent a week at St. Maria’s and it was painfully obvious that the walls were paper thin and I wasn’t sure I’d survive the mortification of being overheard. I tried my best to sneak upstairs unheard but the creaky stairs betrayed me once again.

“Is that you, Juno?”

Meredith’s eager face poked out from the double doors that led to the communal parlour. I hesitated on the steps and tried not to look too disappointed.

“Oh, hey...I didn’t realize you were home.”

“Glad I caught you! Me and some of the girls are heading over to St. Basil’s Church for Eucharistic Adoration! We’d love it if you could join us!”

I forced a smile. In the week I’d lived there, Meredith had asked me to church at least ten different times for various services and I was quickly running out of excuses. I was honestly starting to think Priscilla hadn’t been so bad after all. At least she gave me a reason to be mean to her face. Meredith made you feel like saying no to church was like selling your soul to Satan.

“Um...I would love to, really. But I made other plans, sorry.”

“What other plans?”

There was an air of suspicion in her tone. Suddenly, it was like she’d morphed into an overbearing nun.

“Just...plans. You know, hanging out...with a friend. The usual”

Yes, _the usual_. Where you let your friend chain you to the bed while they stuff things up your the butt. Just another Friday night, really.  

“Will you be going out?”

“No, he’s just coming to visit me.”

I could have slapped myself for letting that slip.

“Oh, it’s a _gentleman_ friend.”

Something grated me about the way she said the word ‘gentleman’. As if she was daring me to correct her.

“He’ll be gone long before midnight,” I rushed to clarify. I didn’t know why I was even bothering. It’s not like Meredith was my mother.

“Hmm,” she said, clearly annoyed. “Well, maybe you should invite him along. Is he Christian?”

I almost laughed at the thought of dragging Strike to church. Something told me he wasn’t the religious type.

“Um, I think he’s an atheist, actually.”

Meredith looked horrified. “An _atheist_? Honey, you don’t want to be spending too much time with those sorts of people. They can be a real bad influence. I mean, obviously, it’s your choice but me, personally? I think your evening would be much better spent in front of the Blessed Sacrament instead of exposing yourself to such worldly people.”

This conversation was quickly becoming incredibly uncomfortable and Meredith was the type of person who was perpetually oblivious to other people’s discomfort. I racked my brain for some kind of excuse.

“He’s driving up from Niagara, actually...so, I think it would be rude to cancel our plans on such short notice.”

“Hmm, I understand, honey. It’s unfortunate you’re stuck with him.”

I feigned annoyance. “Yeah, it’s a real chore.”

Thankfully, Meredith and her group left not long after, leaving the house to myself. I took a long, hot shower and cleaned up for Strike’s visit. I was still too anxious to visit the local salon so most of my hair removal tactics had been done with at-home waxing kits. It was painful as fuck (especially around the mons) but there was definitely no way I was going to get naked without being as smooth as humanly possible. It was another anxiety-inducing thought.

Plus...maybe I just liked looking like a freshly waxed porn star. I wondered what Meredith would think of me and giggled wickedly. Part of me wanted to give her quite the shock while the other part hoped to take my kinky secrets to the grave.

I was still obsessing over my appearance when the doorbell rang, sending a jolt through me. I took a steadying breath before running down the creaky stairs and answering the door. By now, it was twilight and Matthias Strike stood on the front porch, bathed in the soft orange glow of the setting sun.

It was impossible to look away from him. Strike had a distinctive style---mainly rich and ridiculously gorgeous. He sported a more casual look this time with a rugged leather jacket and grey sweater, paired with tailored chinos and sleek Derbys. The total effect was sinful, especially since the sweater brought out his smokey eyes in more hypnotic detail.

Strike suppressed a smile.

“Are you going to invite me in or shall we do it right here?”

I cleared my throat awkwardly. “Um, yes, sorry. Please, come inside.”

He gave me a cat-like smile before breezing past me, the faint scent of leather and jasmine trailing after him. It was only then that I realized he was carrying a dark travel bag that clanked slightly as he moved. I swallowed the lump in my throat as my imagination raced.

For a moment, Strike stood in the middle of the hall, eyeing the large crucifix that hung on the wall. Beside it was a particularly gruesome painting of St. Sebastian, tied with his hand bound to a tree and pierced with hundreds of bloody arrows.  

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” he said, casually. “Very kinky.”

“Oh my God,” I said, mortified, grabbing his arm. “Let’s go upstairs, please. Before I get smited.”

While my bedroom wasn’t completely without religious iconography, it was mercifully free of gory portraits of martyrdoms. Meredith had banned me from removing the small cross above the door, the framed house rules, as well as a prayer to St. Maria Goretti that was taped above the bedside table.

Much to my horror, it only spurred Strike’s curiosity. He eyed the prayer above the table with a wry smile, though he didn’t share his thoughts. I found myself rushing to explain.

“It wasn’t my choice. And I’m sorry the space is so cramped. Kind of my fault for leaving house hunting to the last minute. Oh, I didn’t even take your jacket---”

“Shut up.”

His cold eyes cut into me and I immediately obeyed. He had transformed before me once again, no longer the cheeky visitor I’d invited into my house. With the hard lines of his clenched jaw and his stormy gaze that promised violence, I was suddenly trapped with a stranger---no, an _intruder_ \---set on getting his way. A familiar dose of terror and arousal shot through me and I unconsciously stepped back from him.

He watched me shrink away and let the bag drop by his feet, the contents clanking loudly and causing me to jump a little. The corner of his lips tugged at my obvious fright. He took a carefully measured step forward and I took a step back, whimpering in anticipation. It was incredible how quickly the energy in the room had changed.

“You should be careful who you invite into your house,” he said, his voice low. “The world is full of really fucked up men who’d be only too happy to destroy all your little holes.”

I let out a gasp as he inched closer and I felt the wall press into my back. I was trapped. Strike was eyeing me like he was contemplating where to take the first bite of his meal. Instinctively, I crossed my arms over my chest and pressed myself further into the wall.

“Oh God, please don’t hurt me.” My voice sounded alien. So high and full of lust.

He ignored my plea, his eyes taking a slow tour of my body.

“Strip,” he ordered.

I hesitated for a moment which was enough for him to draw closer and hiss in my ear, “When I tell you to do something, you _fucking_ do it.”

I flinched at the cuss, which seemed to please him.

“Yes, sir,” I said, the response instinctive.

I pulled my dress over my head and let it drop to a pile on the floor. I looked up to gauge his reaction to my lingerie: a black bustier with a garter belt latched to matching stockings. Either Strike had seen enough women in lingerie for the effect to be totally useless or he really was partial to white.

“Lose the garter,” he said, almost immediately.

I carefully unclasped the straps, flushing at how slow I was going. I was just about to carefully undo the straps at the backs of my thighs when I felt a vicious tug and the sound of tearing. I felt his impatient hands ripping the garter off of me, leaving the tops of my stockings in shreds. Someone _really_ hated garter belts.

I was too turned on to reproach him for ruining my (expensive) lingerie but he was already running his rough hands over my bare thighs, promising to buy me better ones. I wanted to ask him what he found so offensive about my current underthings but wisely kept my mouth shut.

He hooked a finger under the hem of my bustier and tugged, sending fresh shivers through me. “Keep going,” he prompted.

This time, I reached back and tried to undo the clasps as quickly as possible before Strike could reduce another item of my clothing to useless shreds. The cold air hit my nipples the moment I peeled the bustier away, my exposed breasts only deepening my sense of vulnerability before his searching eyes. Again, I brought my hands up to cover myself.  

He took hold of both my wrists and the sensation of his strong hands sank me deeper into my arousal. He uncrossed my arms and brought my palms together as if in prayer. Given our surroundings, I had the sneaking suspicion it was deliberate.

“Get on your knees and say your prayers, bitch.”

 _Oh. My. God_. My knees sank into the irritating carpet of their own accord. I looked up at him, towering over me, his grey eyes swimming with malice. His long fingers dexterously undid his belt and slipped it off. I stood as still as a statue with my hands clasps together as he pulled the belt over my neck and secured the buckle. It wasn’t tight enough to choke me but just the feel and weight of it around my neck like a makeshift collar drove me wild.

I watched him pull off his jacket and toss it to a nearby chair. Not even his thick sweater could hide the well-sculpted muscles of his shoulders and biceps. I was reminded again that this man had a body that was basically built to overpower and dominate me. I sighed dreamily as he unbuttoned his chinos and pulled them off. I was treated to tan, athletic legs that suggested more of a swimmer than the runner I’d pegged him for.

His hands wrapped around the buckle at the back of my neck steering my head towards the growing tent in his boxer briefs. God, was it possible he’d gotten bigger since the last time? My tongue darted out to wet my lips.

“Yeah, you want my cock in your throat, don’t you, you filthy slut.”

I moaned in response and his grip tightened. With his other hand, he pulled out his erection and my lips parted at the sight of it. I wanted to rub my face all over his thick shaft, to tentatively lick the skin at the base of his cock where it connected to his heavy balls. There were evidently a lot of things I wanted to do but all those desires were secondary when he forced the tip of his cock into my mouth.

My eyes teared from the embarrassment of what he was making me do. But my crying was oddly cathartic. He pulled my hair back so he could see better; watch his cock sliding in and out of my mouth, lipstick smeared.

“Look at me when you take it in your mouth,” he said and my eyes snapped to his. There was no comfort in the expression he was giving me, part hatred, part laughter. “Good little Catholic girl.”

I nearly choked in surprise. My shame made me pull away but his grip held me in place as he fucked my mouth, slowly at first. I hated that he knew all my buttons. Hated it and loved it. He was only halfway in my mouth but I was eager to see if I could take more of him. I pushed my face further onto his cock and he stilled a little in surprise. I could no longer keep my eyes trained on his for this humiliating initiative but I savoured how his cock filled my whole mouth, running my tongue over his hard length and sucking. My hands left the prayer pose he’d left me in and wandered up to cup his balls. My thumbs massaged the skin at the base of his cock as my mouth tried in vain to stuff as much of him as I could. I chanced a glance up at him to see how he was reacting and saw his teeth were clenched, as if it was taking all his self-control not to simply grab my head and slam into my throat.

Damn my gag reflex.

I knew I couldn’t take much more of him before reaching my limit and I didn’t want to see how far his self-control reached so I slowly slid away, an embarrassing string of saliva following in my wake. Strike shut his eyes and exhaled, trying to regain control of himself. I was flattered to have this effect on him but it also reminded me that he liked to get violent. I wanted to find out just how much.

“Go sit on the bed,” he ordered.

As I got to my feet, he pulled the travel bag towards him and I knew things were about to get fucked up. I took a steadying gulp of air as I sat perched on the bed. I could still taste him in my mouth and I wanted more. He pulled what looked like a medium-sized metal bar from the bag and tested the ends. For a moment I thought it was some kind of giant torture dildo and almost immediately said _Oxford_ like an idiot. But then I noticed the straps at each end of the bar and realized it was just an ankle spreader.

Strike sat in office chair by my desk and rolled himself towards me. He set the bar down beside me and I eyed it suspiciously for a moment before he silently motioned for me to take off my panties. A rush went through me as I obliged, my warm center slick with arousal. He bent down to secure each ankle to the end of the bar. I couldn’t help myself from gasping when his hands wrapped around my ankle. Gasping, crying, moaning...I honestly didn’t understand what my body was doing anymore.

Once my ankles were secure and I could no longer close my legs like a respectable lady, Strike yanked hard on the middle of the bar, dragging my hips to the edge of the bed. I let out a startled yelp and leaned my head back, letting myself just sink deeper into that intoxicating feeling of powerlessness. He pulled the bar up and over my head so my ankles cradled my head, giving him full unobstructed access to my wet pussy, still pink and sensitive from my waxing antics. I watched in quiet curiosity as he thread my arms through the space of my ankles and placed my palms on the soles of my feet. I didn’t know how he wasn’t rolling on the floor laughing at my ridiculous position. I must have looked like a demented pretzel.

He turned away from a moment, fishing something else out of the bag, and returned with red rope. He sank a knee into the mattress as he secured my upper arms to my knees, wrists to my ankles. When he was done, he stood back to admire his work, smirking in sick satisfaction. The effect was complete: I couldn’t move, only wriggle ineffectual in my bonds. I was truly powerless against whatever torture he decided to subject me to.

Taking a seat in the chair again, he inched closer to the bed before casually tossing his legs to either side of me. Was he going to just fuck me like this? I imagined it would only be too easy and there was nothing I could do about it. He watched my face as he sank a single finger inside me, causing me to cry out. I was wet, but I was still fairly tight. I could feel his slender finger stretching out my opening. The place where I wrapped around him felt slick and hot. He added another finger, stretching me further. It hurt a little, especially when his nails scraped against my inner walls. I had no idea how I had taken his cock the last time.

He pulled his fingers out, coated with my arousal, and licked them clean. His eyes met mine as he did this and I could have died. I flushed and looked away.

“I should take pictures of you,” he said, his voice quiet. He dragged a finger around my outer lips, circling tantalizing close to my clit. “Maybe I’d frame them out in the hall so everyone knows what a fucking whore you are.”

I shook my head, feeling more helpless.

“No?” He eyes lit up at my discomfort. He’d discovered another button, goddammit. I started as he reached forward, hooking a finger under the belt at my throat and pulling me forward so I could get a better view of my own sick wetness.

“Don’t you want everyone to know how much you love this? How you always need something shoved up your greedy little cunt? God, look at you. You’re so pathetic. Just a few minutes ago, you were so respectable. And now you’re tied up like dumbass in your own bed, waiting to be fucked. I should just leave you like this. Maybe I’ll even leave the door open so some other twisted fuck can come in here and rape you.”

My head was swimming with the images and threats he was conjuring up. I didn’t even know how to respond. I just started to cry and whimper. He clicked his tongue in disgust and spanked my pussy lightly, the pressure to my clit causing me to jolt a little.

“You’re so full of shit,” he told me, reaching to grab a glass beaded dildo from the bag. He passed it front of my face so I could get a good look at it. It was long but slender enough that it didn’t look like it would cause too much pain. “I can’t have you crying and pretending like you don’t like it. I know deep down, you’re just a pathetic little fucktoy, dying for someone to come along and sink their cock into you. Because that’s your purpose, isn’t it? To be a wet little cum rag?”

My back arched at his words. It was like he had read every dirty novel I had in my bookcase and summarized it all in a single speech. I was too ashamed to admit it but I found myself nodding reluctantly. With the dildo still circling my clit, it was starting to get easier to give in to my own pleasure. If he continued talking this way, I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t come right then and there.

“Just admit it, _sweetheart_ ,” he purred in my ear. Something told me he using that term ironically. “Tell me what you are.”

“I’m...I’m just a whore?”

“No, that’s not all you are.”

I peered up at him, confused. But his expression was still as sardonic as before. What kind of next-level mindfuck was this?

“You’re not _just_ a whore,” he told me, pressing the dildo harder against my wet folds. “Some people are born to be doctors, others born to be engineers. You were born for one specific purpose. You exist for one simple reason. Can you guess what that is?”

He wanted me to say it and the pressure rising in my center was slowly stripping away any dignity I had left. Shame, lust, fear, need---all of it a disorienting soup in my head.

“To please you?”

He sighed in resignation. “It’s okay. I know thinking isn’t your strong point. You probably want nothing more than to cum on something vaguely phallic right now so I’ll spell it out for you. It’s about time you learned your place.”

He pushed the dildo into my pussy and I moaned at the new sensation. I felt it inching inside me, stretching out my walls, offering little to no resistance against this new invasion. I was soaking wet now and the dildo slid in a lot easier than his fingers had earlier.

“You’re not a human being,” he told me, driving the dildo into me at a brutal pace. I could do nothing but watch helplessly as my pussy greedily eagerly took it all in. “You don’t have rights or a brain. You’re just a set of three holes for men to drain their balls into. That’s what you were _made_ for.”

Maybe it was his ruthless words or the pace he was setting with the dildo but the last thread that held my dignity together shattered and I felt deeper into submission. I was no longer desperately holding on to anything; I was in freefall and my anxiety melted away, replaced with a soothing blankness.

“You think I’ve been using this on you for your pleasure?” He laughed as he removed the dildo and smeared the evidence of my arousal over my face. “Your pleasure doesn’t matter. I've been stretching out your slutty hole for my cock. You only exist to drain my balls.”

I gasped aloud when he grabbed my hips and pushed himself inside me. He was bigger than the dildo he’d been using on me and I felt the burning pain as my opening stretched to accommodate him. My head sank back into the mattress and my eyes fluttered shut at the sensation of being filled. The bed creaked under us as he thrusted in and out of me, using me just the way I wanted to be used. Overpowered, restraint, degraded, and a string of dirty words in my ear while I was being fucked savagely....I was in heaven.

Our eyes met and this time I didn’t look away. I knew exactly what I must have looked like to him and I was no longer ashamed of it. If anything, I embraced it.

“Please, please, please cum inside me,” I whispered. “I need your cum.”

My horny begging finally broke his iron resolve and he squeezed his eyes shut, groaning as he shot his load into me. Strangely, in that one perfect moment, I felt like I was the dominant one. Delicious warmth spread through my body and I sighed contentedly as he continued to ram into me, head buried in my shoulder as the last of his climax subsided.

I could have died of happiness.

Then the sound of the front door opening along with Meredith's voice brought me back to reality. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so...what do you guys think? Too messed up? Needs more kink? Time for me to go to church? 
> 
> Speaking of which, the religious stuff will play in later as that's something Juno will struggle with. I'm sure most of us have had to deal with the virgin/whore dichotomy at one point or other.


	9. trust & more

We didn’t move for a moment, instead listening to the voices conversing downstairs. It occurred to me that my door was unlocked and at any moment now, Meredith could come bounding up the stairs, throw open the door, and find me like this…

I mean, thankfully she didn’t have a habit of bursting in on people without knocking but it was still a possibility. Despite the sounds of footsteps ascending the stairs, Strike was in absolutely no hurry to pull out of me. His head still rested against my shoulder, his hard body nearly flush with mine. And not that I didn’t _love_ the fact that he was still inside me, but my paranoia was mounting.

“Matthias, I-I didn’t lock the door,” I told him.

I felt him smile against my skin. He rocked his hips against mine, once, and I moaned in surprise. God, how loud was that? Did anyone hear it? What if Strike was one of those magical unicorn men who could stay hard forever and have multiple orgasms? What if he subjected me to another round of kink with Meredith literally standing on the other side of the door and who knows how many other people? ~~Not that wouldn’t kinda/sorta turn me on.~~

He lifted his head to look at me, a ghost of a smile on his lips. For a moment, I thought he’d actually do it. _Too bad, bitch. I don’t care, I’ll fuck you with the door open_. I could swear he knew exactly what I was thinking, my own flushed face reflected back in his silver eyes. Instead, he exhaled, blowing warm air across my face before he pulled out of me, still hard, but starting to soften.

I watched him redress. It was pretty surreal watching the man who headed one of the nation’s largest energy corporations bending down to pick up his clothes from my bedroom floor. It would have even been funny if it weren’t for his graceful physique. Just watching the muscles in his abdomen stretch and move as he pulled on his sweater was like gawking at a Bernini. I could see it titled _The Dressing of Apollo with Lustful Nymph_.

He turned to look at me when he finished pulling on his jacket. With me still in my ridiculous pretzel position, I could do nothing but blink up at him. Strike wasn’t watching me anymore like a sadist secretly laughing at his twisted creation. He was watching me like I was something sacred.

“I’d like to take a picture,” he said. “Not for the hall, obviously. Just for me.”

I thought for a moment, paranoia still whispering all kinds of warnings in my head. “If you’d like...as long as my face isn’t captured.”

“I want your face to be in it.”

“Then...my answer is no. Sorry.”

He nodded. Technically, he didn’t have to listen to me. What with me still tied up and immobile, there was nothing stopping him from whipping out his phone and literally shooting a porno. Instead, his eyes roamed my body as if he was trying to memorize every detail before he eventually had to free me. He looked almost sad. I didn’t understand why he needed my face in the photo. Presumably, he wanted the photo to...I don’t know, wank off? That didn’t seem right. Not with the look he was giving me, but I didn’t think I was capable of analyzing Strike’s private motives at the moment.

A sudden knock at the door jolted us both.

“Juno, we’re back!” It was Meredith. “Are you busy?”

Strike reached for the doorknob and for a single heart-stopping moment, my soul literally left my body and entered the eighth circle of Hell. I heard the lock click shut and realized he wasn’t about to yank open the door and expose me to the world. He was keeping the world safely out of reach.

I mouthed a silent _thank you_ to him before responding to Meredith. “I’m a bit tied up at the moment but I’ll be down in a few minutes!”

“Okay, great! We’ll be waiting for you in the parlour.”

Her footsteps receded and I let out a relieved sigh. Honestly, the woman was driving me nuts. Strike sensed my fear, but didn’t say anything. He came over the bed and began untying my restraints, brows furrowed.

“You don’t trust me, do you?”

“What?”

He pulled my right arm free before moving to my left. “You really thought I was going to open the door?”

“I...Well, you did threaten to do that just a few moments ago. I was paranoid.”

He stilled and looked down at me, mouth pressed into a straight line. “That was play. This is real.”

I swallowed. I hadn’t thought it possible to hurt his feelings. “I’m sorry. I...didn’t think about it that way. I’m just an anxious person by nature. I mean, you must have noticed it by now. I just assume the worst will happen to me.”

He blinked. “Why would I try to embarrass you like that?”

“I wasn’t accusing you of that. I just meant that...it doesn’t matter who I’m with. I just assume the worst will happen. It doesn’t have anything to do with your character. Like, I can’t stop...I can’t stop thinking. My thoughts move too fast for me sometimes.”

He didn’t say anything, silently untying my left hand and moving to the buckles that secured my ankles. Just as I was about to utter more vague apologies because I was so sure he pretty much hated me for some reason, he pulled the last restraint free and nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll work on it.”

I lowered my legs so I could sit up on the bed for the first time and tried to read his expression. He wasn’t angry. At least, not exactly. It was hard to work out what he was thinking. It was like he had a hundred different masks he could recede behind, offering me only a transient view of whatever really lay beneath. Or, maybe I was just overthinking this.

“I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings,” I said again. “I can’t help being paranoid. The anxiety I feel...it’s always there in the back of my mind. Like white noise. Sometimes I don’t even recognize it because I feel it so frequently. It’s like breathing. Automatic. No one thinks about breathing consciously. So it’s like that. I can’t shut it off. ”

I examined my hands, feeling like an idiot.

“You don’t have to apologize for that,” he said, after a long pause. “And you didn’t hurt my feelings, kiddo.”

My eyes shot to his at my newly bestowed nickname to see his usual playfulness had returned. I was Ingrid Bergman at the end of _Casablanca_ and Humphrey Bogart was flirting with me. A silly giggle escaped me and I wanted to facepalm myself for acting so ditzy. Not that Strike seemed to mind. He was probably used to women stupidly fawning over him. That messy hair, that well-defined jaw, the mysterious shadows that framed his dreamy deep-set eyes...

Wait, did he just say something?

“Sorry, what?”

He laughed, exposing a full set of shiny white teeth that really were wasted if he wasn’t doing Colgate commercials. It was also, evidently, the first time I’d heard him laugh and I liked the sound far too much for comfort.

“I said, this isn’t going to work if we don’t trust each other. Assuming...you’d want to do it again?”

 _Oh God yes_. A million times yes. What came out of my mouth was “I want more.”

He shifted on the bed so he was positioned directly behind me, his long legs cradling mine. His strong arms came over my shoulders, trapping me in place. The leather of his jacket felt cool against my bare back.

“Tell me.”

Instinctively, I fell back into him, nestling my hand into the crook of his neck. A warm blanket of safety covered me from head to toe and it felt like it was okay to admit my secrets in this place; that they would be well taken care of.

“I have this fantasy…” I told him, putting it into spoken words for the first time, “...about a stranger in a mask. I never see his face but he stalks me. Terrorizes me. Sends me threatening messages. Blackmails me into doing what he wants. Or else, he’ll threaten to expose my...my dirty secrets. He breaks into my house at night. He takes photos of me sleeping. He sends me those photos to toy with me, to torment me. One night, I forget to lock to door...because, I don’t know, I’m always really ditzy in these fantasies. Anyway, he comes in the middle of the night. The door is open. He walks upstairs to my room. He wakes me and...he tapes my mouth shut and just...takes me. He tells me it’s my fault for leaving the door open. That I was asking for it. And when he’s done, he leaves. I never find out who it was.”

Awkward silence. Then:

“Amazing. I love terrorizing women.”

And even though it’s the sort of obvious warning sign that should have me running for the hills, it just makes me want him even more.

“Too bad it wouldn’t really work out with my current living arrangement. I can’t even have guests past midnight so I don’t think a staged break-in at one in the morning is going to go over so well.”

“I have a solution to that.”

“Move out?”

“No, that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what?”

“I have a summer cottage off the coast of Center Island. It’s private. Secluded. It’s where I do most of my work when I want to be away from the city.”

“Why not the hotel again?” I asked. “I wouldn’t have to take the ferry that way. Plus I’d have another excuse to see your charming butler again. ”

“What I had in mind for you wouldn’t work well at a hotel.”

I shivered. “Why not?”

“There’s something you should know about me,” he said, fingers closing lightly around my throat. “Society expects me to be polite. Civil. So I play the role of a decent, politically-correct human being. But underneath that is an animal; the innate part that wants to control, dominate, humiliate, destroy. Sometimes I think that’s the real me and the rest is the roleplay. I don’t want to just fuck you. I want to _own_ you. I want every inch of you under my command---body and mind. But not every submissive wants to give up that much control…”

His words evoked an involuntary moan. God, I wished he’d squeeze my neck harder and pretend to choke me but his fingers never added pressure. That was one of his hard limits: no choking.

“You want to know if I’m a submissive or a slave,” I said, my voice rising again like it did when I was ridiculously horny. “I like being bossed around outside the bedroom. I’d do chores and humiliating tasks just because you asked me to. I feel your requests like divine commands. Honestly, I’ve always felt incomplete without a Master.”

I felt him smile. “You should give it a bit more thought than that.”

“I’ve thought about it long enough.”

“Okay,” he conceded. “Then draw up a list of limits again and email it to me so we can negotiate.”

“You mean like a contract?”

“Not in so many words. It obviously wouldn’t be legally binding, but sure, if it suits you.”

Excitement rushed up my spine, my mind racing back to my trashy (and sometimes ridiculous) eroica collection. Most, if not all, had contained a Master/slave relationship, usually of the non-consensual variety.  I’d pretty much given up on the idea that I’d be kidnapped by some hot lumberjack or captured in enemy territory and “forced” to be someone’s slave. Did I mention my erotica collection was ridiculous? But what Strike was suggesting was reasonable. So far, our Dominant/submissive arrangement had worked out, but left us both wanting more. Not more sex, but more control (or lack thereof in my case). I was encouraged by the fact that he was letting me come up with the contract instead of shoving his will on me. There was just the issue of how insane M/s rules could get...

“Would we still use a safeword?” I asked.

“I’m not agreeing to do this without one.”

Yeah, getting accidentally murdered wasn’t exactly high on my priority list either.

“Okay,” I said, a new energy to my voice. “I can write up a contract of sorts. But for now, I should probably get cleaned up before I heading downstairs.”

“I don’t want you to clean up,” he told me, stepping off the bed.  “I want it inside you when you go downstairs and greet your friends.”

A greater woman than I would have found the suggestion perverted and disgusting but I was just as fucked up as he was so I could only respond with a breathy, “ _Oh_.”

He traced a line down the side of my thigh. “Maybe you should wear a skirt so my cum runs down your leg and everyone can get a good idea of what you’ve been up to.”

I swatted his hand away, weirdly offended and turned on. “I would never. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Right,” he said smoothly. “I forgot. You’re a good little Catholic girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bleh...I couldn't figure out how to end this chapter. 
> 
> This Fifty Shades of Grey segment was brought to you by the part of my brain that's forever screaming 'GOSH DANG IT SNOWQUEENS ICE DRAGON IF ONLY YOUR WRITING WASN'T SO SHITTY AND CHRISTIAN WASN'T SUCH A DERANGED STALKER ASDFGHJK' ...does this mean I'm writing fanfic of fanfic? 
> 
> Anyways, I'm always a slut for comments! ;)


	10. the contract

Drawing up a kinky contract was no easy feat. I spent a lot of time researching sample contracts on various sites that looked like they hadn’t been updated since 1997. It didn’t take long for me to stumble across the term ‘TPE’, or Total Power Exchange.

Unlike our current arrangement, a TPE was essentially a Master/slave dynamic in kamikaze mode. You weren’t just roleplaying for a few hours. You were living it 24/7. The Master was completely responsible for the slave’s survival. Anything and everything from diet to clothing to sleep schedule was controlled by the Master.

I’d be lying if that idea didn’t appeal to me on some deep psychological level. With so many things to be anxious about on a daily basis, the fantasy of letting everything go and trusting someone else to take care of every element of your life almost seemed peaceful if it weren’t already so goddamn _insane_. Besides, I didn’t think Strike had enough time in the day to engage in that sort of play and I didn’t want to start so hardcore, at least not in the beginning.

It seemed prudent to draft up a temporary contract, give it try, and then revise as needed. I gave my draft a once-over before emailing to Strike’s personal email.

 

 

> **Temporary Contract of Consensual Ownership**
> 
> The purpose of this document is to:
> 
>   1. define the limits and safeword of a temporary Master/slave relationship
>   2. outline the expected duties of both the Master and the slave
>   3. state the role of both punishments and rewards
>   4. foster a greater understanding between the respective parties
>   5. define the circumstances under which this contract may be terminated
> 

> 
> I, Juno Elizabeth Ward, hereinafter referred to as “slave”, do of my own free will, and being of sound mind and body, do hereby offer myself in consensual slavery to Matthias Q. Strike, hereinafter referred to as “Master”, for the period beginning at midnight on Friday, Sept. 16th 2016,  and ending at midnight on Sunday, September 18th, 2016.
> 
> This agreement may be terminated at any time before the above named date by either party for any reasonable cause. On the above named date this agreement will be reviewed, negotiated and rewritten or terminated.
> 
>  
> 
>   1. LIMITS & SAFEWORDS
>     1. The Master has defined the following limits for the duration of this contract:
>       1. No play involving open flames, chemicals, electrocution, injections or firearms
>       2. No play involving feces, urine, or blood
>       3. No play involving animals or food
>       4. No breathplay
>       5. No pet play or ageplay
>     2. The slave has defined the following limits for the duration of this contract:
>       1. No play that results in bleeding or bruising to the face and neck
>       2. No play in public
>       3. No play involving other participants
>       4. No play involving hot wax or fire.
>       5. The following _trigger words_ should be excluded: fat, ugly, pig
>     3. For the duration of this contract, the safeword will be OXFORD, but CAMBRIDGE can be used when either party feels they are approaching a hard limit.
> 

> 
>  
> 
>   1. DUTIES OF THE MASTER AND SLAVE
>     1. The **Master’s** primary duty is to care for the slave and to accept responsibility over the slave’s body and desires under the provisions specified in this document. The Master must ensure the slave’s physical safety and emotional well-being by engaging in aftercare and frequent talks. The Master agrees to train, punish, care for, and use the slave as they see fit.
>     2. The slave’s primary duty is to obey the Master and to submit to him. There is no time, place, or situation in which the slave may refuse the Master except for the conditions specified under Section 1.2. The slave agrees that the Master may use them as they see fit during the time specified in this document. The slave agrees to please the Master to the best of her ability.
> 

> 
>  
> 
>   1. PUNISHMENT & REWARDS
>     1. The slave agrees to accept whatever punishment the Master decides to inflict, whether it is earned or not. The following guidelines should be followed regarding punishments:
>       1. No injuries to the face or neck
>       2. No blood must be drawn
>       3. No loss of circulation
>       4. No loss of consciousness
>       5. Withholding food or water for extended periods of time
>     2. The slave agrees to accept whatever rewards the Master decides to bestow, whether it is earned or not.
> 

> 
>  
> 
> continued...

 

So it turned out to be a lengthy document. Strike replied several hours later, his sleek signature added to the bottom of the document and a cheeky one-liner:

_I see you had fun doing your research._

It was fun. Just reading about all the punishments Strike could inflict on me if he so wished was enough to turn me on again. But more than that, I was looking forward to what I was referring to as the “warm-up”.

But mostly, I was relieved to have an excuse to get out of the house. St. Maria’s was a musty old building that felt like it was trying to suffocate me. The air was always stale and the furniture looked like it was still stuck in the 1920s. Needless to say, Priscilla was _not_ impressed when she and Emily finally came to visit.

“I can’t believe you actually live in this dump,” she said. “Is this some kind of nunnery?”

Much to my amusement, Meredith didn’t like Priscilla much either. She kept looking at her like she was a high-end prostitute she didn’t approve of while Priscilla turned up her nose like Meredith was a piece of gum stuck to her shoe.

“It’s the only affordable place I could find on such short notice,” I said. “Not all of us can live in a penthouse.”

“Hmm,” said Priscilla, eyeing the wallpaper. “Sometimes I really pity you, Juno.”

I rolled my eyes and exchanged a look with Emily.

“Forget the house,” she said. “You never did tell us who your mystery date was. And you’re seeing him again this weekend. Don’t we get to know who you’re dating?”

I shrugged my shoulders, taking too much pleasure in being elusive. “I am a woman of mystery.”

“Tell me who is before I tickle you to death!”

“Don’t bother,” said Priscilla with an irritating smile. “She’s probably just embarrassed because he’s freaky in the sheets like her.”

I turned bright red. “ _Priscilla_! Meredith is standing right over there!”

“Oh, right. I forgot this was a convent.”

“Don’t change the subject,” said Emily. “Tell us who it is!”

“Well, it’s not that serious right now,” I said. “I don’t want to tell anyone unless it’s serious.”

“Does he at least have Facebook so I can stalk him? Make sure he’s not some axe-murderer?”

“He’s harmless,” I said. “Besides, I don’t want you stalking him.”

Priscilla rolled her eyes. “I’m starting to think this mystery man is imaginary.”

I could tell from the look on her face that she did indeed think I was making the whole thing up. Was it really so hard to believe I could get a date?

“He’s real, I promise.”

“Then show us a picture. Prove it.”

It was tempting to whip out my phone and show her Strike’s pictures on Google images but I had to respect our agreement.

“I can’t."

“Is it because he’s a 80 year old man or is it because he doesn’t exist?”

“Whatever. I don’t need to prove anything to you.”

Priscilla smirked triumphantly and said nothing, which was the most infuriating thing of all.

Emily shoved her shoulder, playfully. “Give it a break. She’ll tell us when she’s ready."

When the weekend finally arrived, I was both nervous and elated. Strike had promised me a ride on his private yacht. It was the only way to the island since the regular ferry didn’t stop there and I couldn’t exactly complain about a free ride of luxury.

Watching the city skyline recede as we sailed across the lake was surreal. One on side I had Strike casually leaning back in his cushioned chair, hair tousled by the wind. On the other side, I had Carson refilling my cocktail. It was heaven.

At one point, the Center Island ferry sailed by and people even started snapping photos of us. I was suddenly grateful for my large hat and sunglasses hiding my face from proper view. Strike gave them a wave and the crowd erupted into cheers.

“You’ve got quite the fan club, Mr. Strike.” I said.

“Trust me, they’re much more interested in you.”

I flushed. If only Priscilla could see me now.

As we approached Plover’s Island, I could make out a large structure peeking out from behind the pine trees. It was an elaborate cottage of wood and glass, nestled into the hilled island like a large bird’s nest overlooking the lake. This was no small cozy cottage tucked away by the beach. This was practically a manor in its own right.

“See something you like?” Strike asked.

“It’s beautiful. I can’t believe I get to stay here.”

Strike smirked a little. Was he thinking about all the things he could do to me in this private secluded place? A shiver went up my legs at the thought of our warm-up activity. I hoped it would be everything I wanted it to be and more.

An hour and half later, I was lounging in the hot tub on the second floor balcony, overlooking a spectacular sunset. It felt like a complete waste of a view without Strike beside me but I knew that wasn’t part of the game. He’d already given me a tour of the place but I was impatient to get started the whole time. Perhaps he could sense my desire because he never laid a finger on me. No brush against the shoulder or a hand at the small of my back. He always kept a respectful distance and it drove me crazy. The tension was building up in my body and the hot water wasn’t doing much to relieve it.

My hand wandered towards the inside of my thighs as I considered. The skin there was smooth and sensitive from the waxing. I looked out towards the dark trees but could see nothing. My finger circled my bikini line, inching ever so closer.

My phone buzzed and I jolted up. There was a text from an unknown number.

_Enjoying yourself?_

Confused, I texted back: _Who is this?_

There was no response for a moment and then suddenly a picture appeared.

A picture of me. A picture of me sitting in the hot tub in my bikini and staring right at my phone. My heart raced. I looked up into the dark trees again but it was now too dark to see anything. There were no lights outside the ones that were in the cottage. Whoever was out there could see my every move and I could do nothing about it.

I texted back: _You’re trespassing. I’ll call the cops if you don’t leave._

(20:18) _Sure, sweetheart. You do that. See how long it takes for them to get here._

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

(20:19) _My boyfriend is coming any second now._

(20: 19) _Lying whore._

Panic started coursing through me. Why did I think this was such a good idea? I was all alone at night in the middle of nowhere with a weirdo on the loose somewhere on the island. Someone who could see my every move.

Another photo popped up on my screen.

It was a picture of my open suitcase. A gloved hand was holding a pair of my pink panties.

I jumped out of the hot tub, nearly dropping my phone. Was he in the house? Was he outside? I couldn’t be sure. I had moved my suitcase from the bed into the closet after the tour. Had they taken a photo then or had they taken it now?

(20:21) _What do you want? Please don’t hurt me._

(20: 21) _You know what  I want._

(20: 22) _I don’t know what you want. Money? You can take my purse. Just leave me alone._

(20:22) _You tease me all night and expect me to just take your money?_

(20:23) _I don’t know what you’re talking about._

A quick flurry of images flooded my screen. Pictures of me stripping off my clothes. Pictures of me wrapped in a skimpy towel. Pictures of me changing into my bikini. All in full view of whoever was in the woods.

(20:24) _I didn’t know anyone was watching. I didn’t mean for anyone to see._

(20:24) _It’s too late now._

The last text felt like a death sentence. I put my phone down and walked into the bedroom to find anything to use as a weapon to defend myself. I’d barely made it past the closet when there was a sharp yank to my ponytail and a hand wrapped around my throat.

“Make one fucking sound and I’ll kill you.”

I shivered. His body was hard and muscled. Goosebumps ran all over my bare skin. Wherever we made contact heated up and I was frozen in fear. I whimpered and instantly cursed myself. He turned me around and pinned me to the floor. The fall knocked the breath out of me and I could only stare up at him in shock.

He was wearing a black ski mask and a dark windbreaker. His gloved hands held me down as I struggled underneath him.

“I told you not to make a sound, _bitch_.”

I immediately started crying. “Please don’t hurt me! I won’t tell anyone, I promise!”

He laughed. It sounded like an evil chuckle. It was a laugh that promised no mercy, no negotiating.

“I’ve been watching you for _weeks_. You think I’ll let you go that easy?”

“Oh my God, no, please.”

“You think you can just tease me and get away with it?”

I struggled against his hands pinning me down but he was just too strong. Up close, I could see his long dark lashes frame his storm grey eyes. They watched me struggle in excitement. My resistance only turned him on.

My throat was tight from the fear but I still managed to choke out a few words: “What are you going to do to me?”

A hand slapped me across the face. “Shut up,” he ordered.

He pulled away and turned me over onto my stomach. He was using something to bind my hands behind my back but I couldn’t see what it was. They felt tight and uncomfortable, like zip ties. With my hands secure, I considered begging but talking seemed to anger him so I sobbed in silence. No one was here to help me and no one would hear me if I screamed.

I felt myself being yanked up by the arms and dragged across the room. With a hard shove, I fell face down onto the bed, my legs sticking out over the edge. I lifted my head up to breathe and felt a hand shove me back down again.

“You do as I say or I’ll cut you up.”

He flashed a pocketknife in front of my face. The blade reflected back my own terrified expression. Without a word, I nodded vigorously. I thought my compliance would deter him from using the knife on me but I felt the dull end of it trailing down the sensitive skin of my shoulder blades. I shivered.

“I’ll cut you up,” he threatened again. “And then you’ll just be another dead whore no one will miss.”

I shook my head, pleading silently with him. Would he listen to reason? Did he have any empathy?

He trailed the knife lower until it was grazing my ass and upper thighs. I supressed the urge to shiver in case he ended up cutting me.

I heard him let out a satisfied sigh. “Oh, Juno, Juno, Juno. Do you know what happens to little girls who tease me?”

I shook my head again.

Immediately, I felt the sharp sting of a slap across my ass. Did he just spank me?

“They get punished,” he hissed. “If you want to act like a slut, then you’ll get treated like one. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

That was the moment it sank in that he was going to take me, whether I wanted it or not. I opened my mouth to beg, but another spank silenced me.

“You don’t get to talk,” he told me. “You’re going to be my little fucktoy tonight and fucktoys don’t speak. They don’t move. And they don’t _think_.”

Humiliation washed over me. I wanted to cry. He didn’t care about how I was feeling, though. He just rounded the bed and sank into the mattress on his knees. He positioned himself in front of my face and yanked my hair up. He shoved my face between his legs and I could feel every inch of him.

“Feel that, bitch? You did that with all your teasing. So now you get to be the one I drain my balls into.”

He pulled out his erection from under the waist of his pants and I had to remind myself to be horrified when all I wanted to do was rub myself against him. It was all lean hard muscle inviting me to get a good taste.

“See something you like?” There was a playful edge to his voice.

I turned bright red and looked away. I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t want him.

He yanked my hair harder. “I didn’t say you could look away, you greedy slut.”

Tears in my eyes, I turned back to his cock, shame overwhelming me. The tip of his cock prodding against my lips and it took another forceful tug of my hair before I opened my mouth in a cry. That was enough for him to shove himself inside of my mouth and I moaned involuntarily.

His breathing became heavy. I wished he’d taken his shirt off so I could see those impressive muscles in his abdomen moving as he sucked in air. His cock was salty and hard on my tongue and I struggled not to gag on him as he pushed himself in and out between my lips.

“God, that feels so good,” he said, increasing his pace.

The sounds my mouth was making against his cock were wet and sinful, which only made me more ashamed than I already was. But that was his goal. He wanted to make me feel used, like a sex toy he was enjoying for a few hours before discarding and goddamn me to hell for getting wet just thinking about that.

I sank deeper into that delicious feeling of being used in this way. His cock was heavenly inside my mouth and all I had to do was lie there and take it like a good girl. Once he had his fill, he pulled out of my mouth, breathing hard like it was getting difficult to control himself.

He rounded the bed again, and gave me another swat. 

“This is what you get for teasing me,” he said.

I felt the tip of him push against my entrance and I was so wet that he slid in without much effort. I made a startled noise at the size of him as he continued to push himself inside of me. God, it felt amazing. He was so big and thick it was hard not to feel immediately satisfied.

He didn’t set a steady pace. He just pounded into me and I screamed in ecstasy. My clit rubbed up against the edge of the bed as he moved and that was enough for me to get wound up. I felt one of his fingers sink slowly into my ass and I was too turned on to complain. It felt wicked and dirty and so perfect at the same time.

“Is this what you wanted?” he panted between thrusts, “Is this what you teased me for?”

“Yes,” I said, my breath getting heavier and heavier. I was so close to the edge.

“Then come for me, you little slut. Come all over my cock.”

His words were enough to break me. My climax rushed violently all though my body. I could feel myself spasming in euphoria as I came harder than I’d ever came before. I was milking his cock and his finger so hard that a few seconds later, he came too and filled me up until his cum was dripping down the insides of my thighs.

We stilled for a moment as we caught our breaths. I was still reeling from the explosive orgasm when he pulled out and spanked me one more time.

“That was a good warm-up,” said Strike. “Now the real fun begins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's just ignore how some of these sex positions make no sense...  
> Anyways, sorry for the long wait. I don't think this chapter ended up quite as steamy as I would have liked but I think I'll just have to accept this is as good as it's going to get with this particular scene. As always, comments & feedback welcome!


	11. rules

“Why don’t you get cleaned up and then we’ll talk.” 

It sounded ominous, like I was in trouble with the school principal or something. I didn’t question him. I simply headed to the bathroom for a long hot shower. I idly wondered if I’d done something to displease him but he hadn’t seemed angry or upset. As with all things that came with Strike, it was going to be a surprise or a mystery. 

By the time I emerged from the shower, Strike had changed into a pinstriped dress shirt, a black waistcoat, and dark slacks. He was in the middle of adjusting his cufflinks when he looked up to appraise me. I didn’t know whether he wanted me dressed or not so I’d opted to go for just a towel wrapped around me. 

The atmosphere in the room had changed. Strike was no longer the masked intruder set to ravish me. But he wasn’t quite the person who’d taken me out on his private yacht or indulged me in a tour. I got the sense I was face to face with the man from the interview again. His gaze was steady, his mouth set into a straight line and I couldn’t tell if it was from disapproval or boredom. 

“Take off the towel,” he ordered. 

He’d seen me naked before but this time felt more like an inspection. I dropped the towel to the floor and suppressed the urge the step backwards when he slowly drew nearer. His eyes roamed up and down my body as he circled me like a hawk. 

I felt his shirt sleeves brush against my bare skin and I instantly leaned back but he pulled away from me. Finally, he came to stand directly in front of me, his eyes finding mine. I looked away quickly, feeling strangely embarrassed. 

“I want you on all fours,” he said at last. He pointed to the ground in front of him. “Now.” 

Was he just going to fuck me again? I got down on my hands and knees and stayed there awkwardly, awaiting his next command. 

“Follow me,” he said, turning and walking down the hall. He paused and turned his head to look at me. There could really only be one thing he had in mind with this position. He smirked a little. “Yes, Juno, I want you to crawl.” 

The last of my dignity crumbling in the distance, I slowly crawled towards him. 

He set an easy pace so I could keep up as he continued down the hall and came to stand by a closed door at the end. He pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked it, opening it only far enough to reach his hand in and turn on the light inside. 

He looked down at me and paused, as if he was deciding something. I wanted to ask him what was inside but had the feeling he didn’t want me to speak just yet. He walked in and held open the door for me as I crawled after him. 

I stopped in the doorway. 

The room was painted entirely in a dark grey. A large Persian rug took up most of the floor. There was a small red pillow placed in the center. All around the walls were strange instruments---some of which I recognized (floggers, spanking paddles, riding crops, assorted belts, spreader bars, rope, various clamps, blindfolds) and some of which I didn’t (a padded bench in the corner, a series of crisscrossing metal bars suspended from the ceiling, and something that looked like a cross between a hammock and a swing). Placed elsewhere around the room was a red chaise lounge and a large bed with black sheets. Paintings hung on the wall that depicted various executions. The only one I recognized was  _ The Execution of Lady Jane Grey _ . Someone had a morbid sense of humour. 

Despite being what I was sure was Strike’s personal torture chamber, there was something oddly inviting about the space. I felt the coolness Strike’s Oxford nudging my buttocks into the room. I was still paused in the doorway. 

I crawled inside and he shut the door behind me. Strike walked to the center of the room where the red pillow was and pointed to it. 

“This is your spot.” 

Tentatively, I crawled towards the pillow and sat on my knees. 

“Good girl,” he said, sending warm shivers down my spine. 

He pulled out the bedroom bench closer to me and took a seat, his strong hands gripping the ends tightly. It was hard not to watch his hands when they sent me into such a frenzy. I felt ready for whatever he wanted to do to me in here. The instruments placed around the room were a tantalizing reminder of the possibilities that could unfold. 

“In this room, you’ll refer to me as Master. Is that understood?” 

“Yes, Master,” I said, the words out of my mouth before I could think it through. It felt so natural to me. 

There was a faint smile on his lips at my quick submission. Had it seemed too eager to please? His eyes darted down to my throat. 

“You won’t get a collar until you earn it.” 

If I was already eager to please, now I was craving it. I didn’t want to leave this weekend without having earned a collar. Just the thought of having one around my neck, a physical reminder of who I belonged to, was enough to make me sigh a little. 

“Let’s lay down some ground rules,” he said. “As always, the safeword is OXFORD. Use it if you need to. If your mouth is covered or gagged, snap your fingers instead and I’ll take it as a sign to stop. Understood?”

“Yes, Master.” 

“You won’t speak unless I give you permission or unless you’re asked a question. Your purpose here is to do as I tell you to and to obey those commands to the best of your ability. If you fail or disobey me, there will be consequences.” 

My eyes trailed to the beautiful array of whips and belts hanging from the wall. Strike’s eyes followed my gaze and the corners of his lips quirked up. 

“Yes, you’ll be punished.” 

The thought of being spanked by him was enough to make me flush. Being held down on his lap, a belt repeatedly hitting my ass, his angry whisper in my ear? Good Lord. I looked down at my knees, ashamed of my sick fantasies again. 

“Does that excite you?” 

I bit my lip. “Yes, Master.” 

“It won’t once I’m through with you.” 

He sounded so sure of himself. I shivered again. My nipples were getting hard. Was it cold in here or was it just the effect he had on me? 

“If you want me to spank you,” he said, “all you have to do is ask. There’s no need to deliberately misbehave just to get a punishment.” 

Ask for a spanking? That sounded humiliating. But oh so much what I wanted from him. My face must have turned red because his expression softened a little. 

“You have to be honest with me,” he continued. “I don’t want you to hide anything from me, especially not your desires, no matter how embarrassed you feel.” 

That was going to be hard for me to do. I wasn’t used to sharing my desires, especially not when they were of the messed up, kinky variety. But I’d done it before. I’d told him about my fantasies, about how I liked to be forced and degraded. He hadn’t laughed at me or questioned my sanity. He’d simply accepted them, shared them even. 

“Can you do that, Juno?” 

“Yes, Master.” 

“Then what are you thinking now?” 

Oh God. 

“I’m thinking...I want to be spanked.” 

“With what?” 

“A belt.” 

He paused for a moment, considering. “Maybe if you’re good, I’ll give you the spanking you want.” 

I couldn’t help myself from smiling at the thought. 

“Come here,” he said, tapping his lap. 

I went to rise from my position but he held up his hand. “Crawl.” 

So crawling was his preferred method of me getting around. That was fine by me. I got back down on my hands and knees and crawled the short distance to him. When I reached his legs, he allowed me to perch on his lap and pulled me in close to his chest. It felt wrong to be so naked when he was still clothed (in a suit, no less) but I had to admit it was still a turn on. Like we were in his office and I was his slutty secretary. I reminded myself to ask Strike later if he harboured such a fantasy. 

He ran his hands up my back and gripped my thigh possessively. “There’s one more rule you should know.” 

His finger slowly traced circles up my stomach, towards my breasts.

“This body belongs to me now. Every inch of you is mine to touch and use as I see fit. You’re not allowed to touch yourself without my permission. You’re not even allowed to come without my permission. Understood?” 

_ Oh.  _

“Yes, Master.” 

“Good. Now lie back on the floor. I want to taste you.” 

My heart sped up at his words. As I lay back on the floor in front of him, I eyed the bed questioningly. He sensed where my thoughts were and shook his head. 

“You have to earn the bed too.” 

That was fine by me. If Strike wanted to me eat me out on a lush Persian rug then I certainly wasn’t going to complain. The rug was itchy but if Past Me could see me now, she’d probably wonder if I’d died and gone to kink heaven. 

Strike got down on his knees and placed his strong arms on either side of me, trapping me in place. My breathing became hard in anticipation of what he was going to do, of where his tongue was going to be. 

“Remember what I said,” he told me. “You don’t get to come.” 

Instantly, I felt myself getting wet. What the hell was wrong me? 

He palmed a breast in his hands and I arched my back when he put his lips to the other one. I wanted to moan and cry out from the pleasure but I wasn’t sure how he’d react to me making noises. His warm tongue circled my nipple and I sighed deeply, letting my thoughts float away. At one point, he actually nipped me. 

_ “Oh.”  _

“Quiet.” 

So not a fan of noises, then. My stomach shivered where he left a long trail of wet kisses that led straight down to my pussy. I instinctively wanted to close my legs but he held them open in his arms and dipped his head down. 

With his eyes locked right on mine, he swiped his tongue up my clit. I bucked my hips against him and he had to push his weight onto to me to stop my hips from moving. He traced slow circles on my outer lips as he worked his way inwards towards my clit again. It was like torture. He was teasing me, testing the sensitive flesh of my inner lips, slowly swiping his tongue against my clit and causing my hips to buck up again and again. 

I didn’t know how he expected me not to come. 

His tongue slipped inside of me and I moaned, squirming my hips. He sucked on me some more before I felt myself on the edge. 

“Please,” I begged, “I think I’m going to--”

“Don’t you dare.” 

That was only getting me even hotter. He didn’t slow his pace though. His tongue was just as good and sinful as it was before. Quick strokes assaulted my clit, as if he was really trying to get me off in earnest. I bit my lip, fighting the rise of adrenaline coursing through every inch of me. It felt like my center was on fire, begging for release and his tongue was only too happy to oblige. 

“Oh,  _ fuck _ ,” I cried. 

My orgasm blossomed where his tongue touched me and sent shivers through my whole body. My toes were curled, it was that good. I was sucking in air, my whole body arched back, my eyes squeezed shut. It took me a full minute to come back from my high. 

Strike was no longer between my legs. He was standing right above me. He wiped his mouth and gave me a look that could have frozen the fires of hell. 

“I told you not to come. Now you’re going to get it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! ;)


End file.
